North Star
by tlyxor1
Summary: Bella, adrift and directionless, returns to her birthplace, eager only to reach her high school graduation. There, she meets Paul, who has ambitions for a future beyond the boundaries of La Push, and all of the drive to see them through. It's quite unfortunate, then, when fate and duty have other plans. Pre-Twilight AU, of a sort. OOC. B/P. Imprint Fic. Slow Burn.
1. Chapter 1

**North Star**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Twilight. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Summary:** Bella, adrift and directionless, returns to her birthplace, eager only to reach graduation. There, she meets Paul, who has ambitions for a future beyond the boundaries of La Push and high school, and all of the drive to see them through. It's quite unfortunate, then, when fate and duty have other plans. Pre-Twilight AU, of a sort. OOC. B/P. Imprint Fic.

 **Rating:** M for language, violence, adult themes, character death, and social issues.

 **Themes:** Adventure. Angst. Drama. Family. Fantasy. Friendship. Hurt/Comfort. Romance. Social Issues. Tragedy.

 **Author:** tlyxor1.

 **North Star**

 **Chapter One**

 _Bella_

There's something utterly mortifying about arriving to school in a cop car, so I'm grateful Charlie drops me off an hour before most of my prospective classmates arrive at Forks High. It also gives me the opportunity to organise my schedule and what have you, though that's not something I'm particularly thrilled about, personally. As a result of the fact I've got a mom who is a high school teacher and a dad with particular expectations, I get excellent grades and work hard, but I've never been particularly fond of school. A transfer to the only high school in Forks won't change that.

I'm in the midst of attempting to make sense of the cramped, nonsensical, practically microscopic map I've been provided when I'm approached by an African-American kid with cornrows in his hair and a lazy, easy grin.

"Hi," he greets, "I'm Tyler. You're Isabella, right? Chief Swan's daughter?"

"Yeah," I answer, an eyebrow arched in question, "Can I help you?"

Tyler laughs, and explains, "I thought I could help you. The school map is a piece of shit."

"I can't argue with you there," I agree, and shove the map in question into a pocket of my jeans. It'll wind up in the laundry, no doubt, but it's practically useless, so I won't cry over it. "Can you tell me where Mr Cassidy's Trigonometry class is?"

Tyler looks surprised and impressed, but he doesn't comment. I'm grateful. "Yeah, though I'm not in that class. I can walk you there though, if you'd like?"

I acquiesce, and fall into step beside the taller boy. He shortens his stride to match mine, points out landmarks and classmates and the like, and doesn't ask a lot of questions. I'm surprised, because Forks is a town where everyone is perpetually up in everyone else's business, but I appreciate the gesture nevertheless. I don't expect many others will be quite as reserved.

"Here we are," Tyler declares with a flourish, "Good luck with Cassidy. I've heard he's a crotchety old bastard."

"Thanks for the head's up," I answer wryly, "And for the escort, as well."

I slip passed him into the classroom, pleased to find the room empty. It's the first day of the school year, which means there isn't any assigned seating (yet), so I settle in a chair by the windows, and produce a notebook and binder from my backpack. Outside, it starts to rain, the sky an ominous, tumultuous grey.

I watch as the rain falls in sheets beyond my window, and wonder idly how I will make it home. At 15 years old, I don't yet have a car, or even a license to drive one, and the prospect of walking home is an increasingly less appealing one. More so is the prospect of being picked up by Charlie, but if the weather doesn't let up, I'm fairly certain I won't have any other choice.

As I consider my options, a lanky, acne-ridden boy with Asian features drops into the seat beside mine, and a tall, olive-skinned girl sits beside him. They introduce themselves as Eric Yorkie and Angela Weber, respectively, and we make awkward smalltalk as the rest of the classroom is inundated by our peers.

"Where were you before Forks?" Eric asks.

"Seattle," I answer.

"Forks must be a big change from city life, huh?"

I shrug, noncommittal. I've spent almost every summer since my parents' divorce in Forks, or in La Push, and a weekend every month, as well. I've alternated holidays between my parents' respective houses, and I have found something else to love with every visit to Charlie's. It's not home - not yet - but I appreciate the quiet, isolated community a lot more than I do the hustle and bustle of downtown Seattle. Moreover, my mom, Renee, is Quileute, and I can't deny the draw I feel towards La Push, towards the people there, and I don't even try.

"Do you like it, at least?" Eric prods.

"I do," I confirm.

There are things I'll miss about Seattle, the restaurants and the friends and the abundance of recreational possibilities, but I can breathe in Forks in a way I've never been able to in the city, and despite everything, I'm glad to be here.

Before Eric can ply me with more questions, our teacher calls our class to order, and proceeds with an introductory lecture I scarcely pay attention to. I scribble song lyrics in the margin of my notebook instead, draw stars and flowers in the corners, and wait restlessly for the end of the lesson.

When it arrives, Eric crowds me. He's eager to show me to my next class, embarrassingly so, and slightly behind him, Angela offers me a grimace of sympathy.

"So, why did you decide to move to Forks?"

"Eric, that's none of your business," Angela chides, glances at me from Eric's other side, and assures, "You don't have to answer that."

I shrug again, unconcerned. "It's nothing interesting. Mom and her husband, Phil, were moving to Florida, and I didn't feel like joining them. Washington's my home, so I decided to move in with Dad. I've been here since the beginning of June."

As Eric and Angela share my next class, we chat inconsequentially about our respective summers. I spent mine hiking and fishing with Charlie, and Eric cringes at the very thought.

"How do you _do_ that?" He asks, incredulous. "Aren't there bears in the forest?"

Beside him, Angela rolls her eyes. "You've only lived here your whole life, Eric. Have you ever heard of a bear attack in Forks? You'd sooner be struck by lightning."

I smother my laugh, and answer Eric, "I don't know. How does anyone do anything? I like the outdoors, I guess."

I like to keep busy, too. I'd attended dance classes until my move to Forks, Gymnastics and Acrobatics until I was 12. A fellow dancer once showed me the value of Yoga and Tai-Chi during a summer dance camp in Port Angeles, and ever since, I've spent an hour every morning practising one or the other. Even in the comfort of my own home, I'm doing something, whether it's chores, or baking, or playing the guitar I inherited from Charlie.

"There's nothing wrong with that," Angela assures. She offers Eric a filthy scowl, and proceeds to explain the perils of Christian Camp - with her brothers - in painstaking detail. All the while, our British Literature teacher snoozes at his desk, Eric draws cartoon caricatures in his notebook, and a brown haired, green eyed boy casts moon eyes at Angela with all the subtlety of a rampaging bull in a china shop. I learn later that his name is Ben.

By lunch, I've met all of Angela and Eric's friends. It turns out Tyler is part of their group, and he greets me with a fist bump when I drop into a seat across from him. We're in the cafeteria, accompanied by the obligatory lunch trays and what have you, and I am somehow the centre of the entire table's attention.

"How do you like Forks High so far?" Jessica asks. SHe's a fair-skinned, curly haired brunette I share AP Spanish with, and I'm a little overwhelmed by her exuberance.

"Uh, it's school," I answer, "I don't have an opinion either way. I mean, it's smaller than I'm used to, but I guess that's par for the course. But you know, classes, homework, gratuitous drama - it's all the same, really."

As I eat, I take the opportunity to learn about those whom I sit with. Mike's parents own an outfitters, Lauren's the brutally honest type, and Ben - the boy who can't take his eyes off Angela - has a healthy respect (Re: obsession) for Marvel comics like no one else I know.

I'm distracted from my observations by the entrance of five students I've not yet encountered. They're all dressed far too glamorously for Forks, exceedingly pale and ethereally beautiful, and I am discomforted by the very sight of them.

Even as they make the hairs on the back of my neck rise, I am struck by an instantaneous, inexplicable dislike of these strangers, and I turn away before they notice my scrutiny.

"They're the CUllens," Jessica offers, "THey're all adopted by Dr and Mrs Cullen, and they're all together. Not like an orgy or anything - I think, anyway - but like, they're paired off? Everyone but Edward. He's the one with the reddish hair. Anyway, they don't care to hang out with the little people, so most of us don't bother with them. I mean, who wants to hang out with people who think they're better than everyone else, right?"

"Right," I agree, pick listlessly at the wilted salad in front of me, and contemplate the time. I'm tired, and I am ready for this day to be over.

"I still think it's fucking ridiculous that they wear designer label clothes in Forks," Lauren opines, "I mean, who the hell do they think they are? This isn't Hollywood."

She starts ranting about child labour, of all things, and I am too surprised to contribute. The others are exasperated and long-suffering, but they don't stop her, and the only thing that does is the sound of the bell overhead.

"What have you got next?" Mike asks. He's blonde and blue-eyed, all arms and legs and a baby face, and it's almost cute, like a puppy that hasn't yet grown into his limbs.

"World History," I answer dully.

"Great," Lauren links her arm through mine, "I do too. Walk together?"

Without much of a choice, and not particularly inclined to argue anyway, I acquiesce with a nod, and spend the walk with Lauren explaining that she wants to be a lawyer when she grows up, specialising in either Civil or Human Rights. It's kind of intimidating, because most days I can't even decide what I want for breakfast, but I admire her ambition regardless.

She and I settle somewhere near the middle of our classroom, ready what we'll need, and wait for our teacher to start the lesson. He does so without incident, and the rest of my afternoon passes in a monotonous haze.

As I leave the building after my classes, I wonder how I'll manage three more years of school, and try not to think about it. Also avoided is the vague, amorphous future that awaits me after high school, and again I wonder how Lauren can already know what she wants to do with the rest of her life. I'm not even sure if I want to go to college, never mind the rest of it, and the very thought of making a decision _now_ makes me vaguely nauseous.

"Rain's cleared up," Tyler observes. It turns out he lives on the same street as I do, and he's about as enthused about walking home as I am.

Suffice to say, he's about as enthusiastic to get his license as me, as well.

"Yeah," I acknowledge, tug the hood of my rain jacket over my head, and make my way off school grounds. He falls into step beside me, and I add blandly, "Pray it lasts."

Tyler barks a short laugh. "In Forks? That'll be the day."

I make it home without incident, kick my shoes off at the door, and shuffle to my bedroom to get changed into a pair of sweats, a tank top, and a well-worn 'Forks PD' pullover. Charlie's not home yet, and I'm tempted to catch up on the episodes of Criminal Minds I haven't seen while he's gone, but if I do, I probably won't be doing anything else. The thing is, my father has an irrational disdain for all things crime drama, so I'm tempted to take advantage of his absence while I can.

Unfortunately, school takes priority, and despite my general ambivalence where my education is concerned, I'm not about to let my grades slip. It would raise too many questions with Renee and Charlie, and quite frankly, I can't be bothered dealing with that mess.

At the very least, it's only a few readings I have to do before the following day, and as it happens, it only takes me a bit over an hour to finish everything. It's nice to have it all out of the way, and I take advantage of my freedom to catch up on TV, to bake some brownies, and to get started on dinner. It's not much - grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, and some seasoned mashed potatoes - but when Charlie gets home, he demolishes his serving with enthusiasm, goes for seconds, and then inhales a couple of brownies afterwards. He's stayed in shape over the years, tall and fit in a way that's plainly unfair when one considers his diet and fondness for beer, and I wonder incredulously where he puts it all.

"Thanks, Bells," Charlie says, slumped back in his seat at the dining table, "You're a great cook."

Predictably, my face flames. I'm abysmal when accepting compliments, always have been, and likely always will be. "It was nothing, Dad. Just simple stuff."

"Better than anything Renee and I can manage," he replies, chortling to himself..

Having experienced both of their culinary efforts, I don't disagree with him. I'm a shit liar, and Charlie can see right through me, anyway. they both suck at cooking. I assume it's because their respective mothers never truly gave them the opportunity to learn for themselves,, but not even that can explain Renee's truly extraordinary ability to burn water, or Charlie's unfortunate tendency to subsist on coffee, donuts, and pizza. It's a moot point, in any case, because I refuse to eat anything they prepare for me these days, and they're both content enough to eat whatever I prepare instead.

He starts to stack the dishes, and adds, "I'll clean up."

I don't bother protesting. Charlie's the stubborn sort, and when his mind is set on something, the effort it takes to change it is monumental. Moreover, it's not like I'm particularly fond of cleaning the kitchen. It's a chore like any other, and if I can avoid it for another day? Well, I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Instead, I take advantage of the empty bathroom, shave my legs and what have you, and take my time in front of the bathroom vanity. I like to think I'm not particularly superficial, but over time, I've learned the value of proper skincare, and I've gotten into the routine of regularly exfoliating, cleansing, and moisturising. It's often repetitive and tedious, but I can't deny the results, and I don't even want to.

Before long, Charlie's knocking at the door to let him use the John, and I slip into my bedroom to get ready for bed. It's not particularly late, but I curl up in bed with a novel and pass the time with 'Pride and Prejudice', until it is, at which point I shut out the light, curl up under my covers, and eventually fall asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**North Star**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Twilight. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Two:**

 _Paul_

There's another round of uproarious laughter from the back of the cafeteria, and I roll my eyes, irritated beyond belief. It's a group of ninth graders, too cool for school and all that shit, and I can't wait for the novelty of high school to wear off for them. Maybe then, they'll actually shut the fuck up and allow the rest of us to eat our food in peace.

Across from me, Jared sends them an angry glare, and his girlfriend, Anna, laughs.

"Calm your tits, Jay," she says, "They're not doing anything wrong."

"They're disturbing the peace," Jared grunts.

Anna rolls her eyes. "Jesus, I didn't know it was suddenly a crime to laugh."

Jared looks primed to start an argument, Anna does too, and I brace myself to be an unfortunate, unwilling witness to the spectacle. As bewildering as it is to anyone who has known the easygoing, mild-mannered Jared Cameron of months and years passed, it wouldn't be the first time. Jared's been running on a short fuze as of late, liable to blow up at anything and anyone at the slightest of provocation, and Anna is no exception. He hasn't gotten violent, thank God, but I wonder if there's a point I should intervene, and if so, I wonder how I'll recognise it if or when it happens. Moreover, I can't believe it's something I have to consider at all.

Jared Cameron is perhaps my closest friend in this godforsaken shithole, built on the foundation of a lifetime's worth of summer vacations. Our (living) grandparents are buds, and subsequently, I'd spent those early holidays hanging out with him, and over the years, that hasn't really changed. In saying that, I've never known him to be the aggressor in any type of confrontation.

In fact, before this year, I'd have said he was the type to _avoid_ them.

People change, I suppose.

Before Jared can say anything he'll regret, the bell that heralds the end of lunch blares to life, and we gather up our things to leave. I'm done with school for the day, but Jared and Anna both have their online electives to look forward to, and I bid them a lazy salute on my way out.

Outside, the weather is predictably dreary, but I make it to my grandparents' place without getting drenched, so I can't complain. Grandma's on the porch, singing to herself as she knits a baby blanket, but Grandpa's awol, and I assume (correctly) that we'll be having fish for dinner. Again.

"Hey, Pauley," Grandma greets me, and I hate to see the grief in her eyes, "How was your day, baby?"

I bend to kiss her on the cheek. "It was all right, Grams. School, you know. Same old shit, different place, different day."

I'm a new transfer to the Quileute Tribal School, and although the fact I'm one of only 45 students in my grade is something of an anomaly, school is school wherever I go. It's a stepping stone to the future, a necessity to endure until I can reach college, and I can't complain.

Grandma clicks her tongue, disapproving of my language, but she doesn't chide me for it. I think she and I both know I can't handle that shit after my parents' deaths, and moreover, it's not like I've done anything to truly warrant proper discipline. Mostly, my life has fallen into a monotonous routine of school, work, chores, and Naomi, and that doesn't particularly leave much opportunity for rebellion, or whatever else.

It's probably for the best, in any case. I already have an uphill battle ahead of me, tarred by the brush of stereotypes, prejudice, and racism, and I'd rather not have a juvenile record to hamper my ambitions on top of that.

"There's some sandwiches inside," she says, "Ham, cheese, and tomato. Your favourite."

"Thanks, Grams."

I shuffle inside, small and worn, with faded walls and flower patterned furniture. It's hard to imagine my father - gregarious, exuberant, larger than life - growing up in this house, or in La Push, really. It feels too small to have contained all of his personality, all of the spirit inside him, and I suppose it's no wonder that when he left, he never looked back.

If I'm honest with myself, I'll probably do the same, and I feel like a complete ass for it.

I sigh wearily, help myself to one of the sandwiches grams had mentioned, and shuffle into my room.

It's my dad's childhood bedroom, complete with a faded ocean mural on one of the walls. It's small, just like the rest of the house, but the bedroom furniture is my own, and I've finally stopped feeling like I'm intruding on something sacrosanct, on a memorial of the boy my father had once been, or something like it.

It's kind of bizarre, because it's where I slept when I visited on summer breaks in years passed, but it's something different to sleep in your dad's old bedroom when he's alive and in the room next door, and a whole different ballgame to do so when he's dead and buried.

I grimace, finish my sandwich, and get started on what little homework I've been assigned that day. It's tedious and dull, material I'd already covered in Tacoma the school year prior, and I'm counting down the days until my early graduation. Nevertheless, I finish it within the hour, and occupy myself with chores around the house.

"There's a storm coming, Pauley," Grams says from the porch. I'm in the yard, on my knees, weeding her herb garden, and overhead, the weather's actually cleared up from that morning's downpour. I'm perplexed, therefore, but I don't question her, and instead push on before the weather actually takes a turn for the worse.

As I do so, grandpa pulls up in his beat up station wagon, fishing hat on his head and Naomi in the back seat. At 6 years old, she's all arms and legs and a gap-tooth grin, and she beams upon sight of me.

I spend the next hour with her, absorbed in a blow by blow replay of her very first day at her new school. She talks a mile a minute, with exuberant hand gestures and an expressive, open face, and I am reminded, poignantly, of our father. She takes after him in so many ways, takes after our mother in others, and I am struck with the sensation of loss all over again. It's been a year since the accident, and I miss them no less than I ever have, and I wonder if Naomi does, too.

I don't ask. She doesn't talk about them much anymore, mostly at the therapy sessions we have at Port Angeles, and even then, it's not with the same sadness that had cloaked everything in those early days. According to our therapist, Dr Marks, it's because children are resilient, with an admirable ability to bounce back from trauma and tragedy, but nevertheless, I'm in awe of the fact she can smile, can laugh, can thoroughly enjoy every day that passes her by.

Some mornings, i don't even want to get out of bed.

"You should get ready," Grandpa advises, "It's nearly five."

Grandpa is tall and broad, with a head full of grey hair and lines around his eyes. He's only in his late 60's, but he and grams have buried both of their children, and it's aged them both before their time.

While Naomi pouts and protests, I do as I'm told, and before long, I'm on my way out the door, headed to work. It's nothing glamorous, just a waiting gig at La Push's only diner, but it provides employment experience and spending money, and as such, I can't complain.

"Hey, Paul," Harry clearwater greets me. He owns the diner, and he's a cool dude, all things considered. In contrast, his daughter, Leah, is a raging bitch, but because she's fresh out of high school, she generally works the morning shift. As such, I'm not forced to interact with her on a regular basis, which is a relief, since I don't think I'd be able to stay polite for a prolonged amount of time. "How was school?"

He and I chat idly as I clock in, about school and sports and fishing, and I wonder why this guy runs a diner when it's abundantly clear he would rather spend his days outdoors. I don't ask, of course, because not only is Mr Clearwater my boss, it's also none of my business, and I don't really give a shit besides. Each to their own, and all that.

The conversation doesn't last long, in any case, and before I know it, I'm entrenched in serving food and taking orders and making polite small talk with people whom, without fail, remark upon my resemblance to my father, or my grandfather. I suppose it's par for the course in a place as small as La Push, but it's as mentally draining as the dinner rush is physically, so as usual, it's a relief when my shift is over.

"Have a good night, Paul," Mr Clearwater says. "See you tomorrow."

"You too, Mr C," I answer, and tug off the waist apron on my way out.

It's cold outside, the air damp, the scent of sea salt on the breeze. The parking lot has begun to empty as that night's patrons make their way home, and I approach my beat up Jeep with a tired yawn. It's been a long day, and despite myself, I'm ready for bed.

As I make my way home, thunder rumbles overhead, and I think on Grams' words from earlier.

A storm is coming, indeed.

 _Bella_

In Seattle, I used to attend a dance class after school every day. Those lessons kept me busy, kept me in shape, kept me happy, and without a daily ballet, hip-hop, or ballroom dance session to look forward to, I feel somewhat adrift and aimless. I don't know what to do with all the free time that is suddenly at my disposal, and predictably, Charlie notices. I don't really expect anything less from a former detective, but I'm still somewhat irked by my own transparency.

"You should try for a job," he suggests.

"Maybe," I answer, though I'm noncommittal. It's something to think about, at least, and if nothing else, I wouldn't mind some spending money.

"And there's a dance studio here in town, you know? I don't know what classes they offer, but you could probably check it out."

I wasn't aware of that, actually, and a small spark of hope ignites in my heart. It'd probably be too much to expect master classes (that I don't qualify for, anyway), but if there are a few advanced courses…

"I'll look into it," I acknowledge, finish up the last of my orange juice, and shrug on my coat. I tug my backpack over my shoulder and press a grateful kiss to Charlie's cheek. "Thanks, Dad. Have a nice day."

"You too, Bells."

I meet Tyler at the end of the street. He's half asleep, slumped against the street sign, a travel mug of coffee in hand, and he scowls at me.

"How are you so damn awake right now?"

"Good morning to you, too," I laugh, and continue the walk to school. He falls into step beside me, and waits, expectant, for an answer. "If you must know, I wake up at half passed five."

"What the fuck for?"

"This morning it was Yoga," I answer, "Yesterday, it was Tai-Chi. Then I took my time getting ready, enjoyed a nice cup of chai tea before breakfast, and here we are."

"Damn, girl," Tyler shakes his head, incredulous, "You're something else."

"Thanks," I reply, unafraid to own that, "I do try."

Tyler and I chat idly about music and movies on our walk to school, and when we reach the parking lot, we're joined by the others I've gotten to know. Lauren's got a jumbo sized can of Red Bull in hand, and I'm sure Ben's about to fall asleep where he stands.

I laugh at their plight. In response, Jessica offers me a sleepy scowl, though she's more preoccupied by her half-hearted attempts to wrangle her riotous curls into a semblance of order.

"What's everyone doing this weekend?" Mike asks.

I've got plans with Charlie for a Sunday morning fishing trip, but the rest of my weekend is free, and I admit as much. Angela and Tyler have church around the same time, Lauren's got a date on Saturday evening, but everyone else's weekend is a blank slate, and Mike suggests a cookout at his place on Saturday.

"It's supposed to be sunny," Jess reasons.

"I'll have to check with my parents," Ben hedges. Eric and Angela echo the sentiment. Jessica and Lauren are already in, as is Tyler, and I acquiesce on the proviso that I can find a way to actually get there.

"I'll ask Mom, but I'm sure she'll be able to pick you up," Lauren says, "You, too, Ty."

"Thanks, Ren," Tyler answers. I offer her a grateful smile, too, and we disperse as the school bell blares shrilly across the grounds.

I walk with Eric and Angela to Trigonometry, and we're in the midst of a discussion concerning the religious themes in 'Supernatural' when Alice Cullen brushes passed us. She offers me a bright, pearly white smile, and I offer her a discomforted one of my own. I've been a student of Forks High for three days, and I've encountered her at least once during every one of them. I'd like to think it's mere coincidence - Forks High is a small school, after all - but the doubt persists, and I am wary.

I'm not the only one.

Eric shutters theatrically. "God, she creeps me the hell out."

"Yeah, me too," I agree. Angela bites her lip, conflicted, but she doesn't argue.

As we settle in our seats, Mr Cassidy checks off our attendance, and we return to our conversation from a few moments earlier. It somehow shifts to a discussion regarding who was more attractive - Sam or Dean - and I'm amused by Eric's long-suffering grimace as Angela and I debate the subject.

"I'm fairly certain this is objectification," Eric interjects.

"DO you really want to talk about objectification, though?"I parry.

"Yeah, let's talk about objectification," Angela opines.

Eric looks suitably cornered, but he's saved by the tardy bell, and by Mr Cassidy, who proceeds with that day's lesson without further ado. I offer Eric the promise that we'll continue this later, pick up a pen to take notes, and eagerly await our lunch break. With Lauren and Jess present, and the topic of gender objectification on the table, it ought to be interesting.

 **Author's Note:** I'm a bit meh about Paul's POV. I guess because I'm not accustomed to writing it. Thoughts? I hope it doesn't sound too female?

Anyway, there's supposed to be a page break between the POV shifts, so let me know if that one doesn't show up. Also, if there are any formatting issues, or obvious mistakes, really.

Hope you've enjoyed. Thanks for reading. Until next time, -t.


	3. Chapter 3

**North Star**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Twilight. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Three:**

 _Bella_

On Saturday morning, before my later than usual morning session of yoga, Charlie and I go for a run around the neighbourhood. He bitches about it on our way out of the house, but he's in excellent shape for his age, and I'm unsurprised to find he keeps up with me easily. In fact, he pushes me to go faster and farther, makes me add sprints to my usual routine, and I'm puffed by the time we return home.

Charlie, who is hunched over, braced against his knees, and drenched in sweat, offers me a grin. "Good run, Bells."

"Yeah," I agree, walking off the adrenaline, "Same time next week?"

"You bet."

The next hour passes with yoga and meditation, and when I resurface from my bedroom, it is to witness Charlie mowing his way through a breakfast of bacon, poached eggs, and toast drowning in butter. He's still in his exercise clothes, and I assume - correctly - that he's been working on his exercise machines in the garage while I've been busy.

"Hey, Bells," he greets, "I boiled some eggs for you."

"Thanks, Dad," I acknowledge. They're waiting on the counter, already shelled and sliced the way I like. The salt and pepper are beside the small saucer, as is a bowl full of sliced fruits, yoghurt, and granola, and I am swamped with a rush of affection for my thoughtful, observant father. "This looks great, Dad."

Charlie grumbles, but the tips of his ears are red, and he is pleased by the acknowledgement of his efforts. I sit across from him at the dining table, take the time to enjoy my meal, and chat with him about our respective weeks, about our plans for the weekend, about my birthday on the 13th of September. It's easy and pleasant, but before long, both of our plates are empty, and there is a list of errands to be completed before I can prepare for Mike's cookout.

Reluctantly, I get started on the kitchen, and Charlie blasts Simon and Garfunkel from his stereo as he works on the laundry. I hum along, and Charlie bops his head to the beat, singing to himself, and the morning slips by without my notice.

Before I know it, I've made up a couple trays of potato bake, and another of chocolate-peanut butter brownies, and I'm dolled up in a pretty sundress over my bathing suit. Mike's apparently got a heated pool, and although I can't fathom how expensive that would be to use and maintain, I'm not about to question it. Instead, I send Charlie on his way with a brownie and a list of groceries to buy, and wait restlessly for Lauren's arrival.

Tyler arrives first, weighed down by a bag of snacks and soft drinks, and the explanation that Lauren had texted him to await her there.

"So her mom only has to make one stop, y'know?"

"Yeah," I acknowledge, "Makes sense."

Tyler nods absently. "You look nice today. I didn't realise your hair was so long."

I smile, simultaneously pleased and embarrassed by the compliment. I've left my hair unbound today, and it falls down my back in loose, thick curls. It reaches the swell of my hips, dark brown and accented by natural highlights, mahogany and butterscotch and caramel, and I'm not ashamed to admit that my hair is my pride and joy.

"Thanks," I say. As I do, Lauren's mom pulls into the driveway, and Tyler and I are spared the threat of an awkward, uncertain silence.

Tyler helps me with the food as I lock up the house, and we shuffle into the back of Mrs Mallory's sedan with grins for Lauren, and all the appropriate courtesies for her mom. The woman is the spitting image of her daughter - or rather the opposite is more appropriate, perhaps - blonde and blue eyed, tall and thin, and with all of Lauren's shrewd, discerning intellect, too.

Evidently, the apple didn't fall far from the tree where Lauren is concerned.

I wonder briefly why Mrs Mallory is in Forks, of all places, but I'm careful not to ask, and instead, we make polite, generic conversation about school on the (relatively) short drive to Mike's.

"Thanks for the lift, Mrs Mallory," I say, shuffling out of the car.

"It's not a problem, honey," Mrs Mallory answers, "I hope you kids have a nice day."

"We will, Mom," Lauren answers. They quickly make arrangements for Lauren's ride home, but a few moments later, Mrs Mallory has pulled away from the drive, and the three of us are on Mike's parents' porch.

I stare at the door, vaguely uncertain. "Do we ring the bell, or…?"

"Might as well," Tyler shrugs. He's holding the potato bake and brownies, and Lauren's got her hands full with a glass salad bowl, so I do the honours, and it doesn't take long for someone to respond.

The woman is petite, blonde and green eyed, caught somewhere in that ambiguous place between 30 and 55. She introduces herself as Mike's mom, Andrea, insists I not address her as 'Mrs Newton', and then greets Tyler and Lauren as though they are old friends, entirely genuine in her enthusiasm and good cheer. It's a little overwhelming.

"Everyone's out back," Mrs Newton explains, "Eric and Ben haven't arrived yet, but the girls are helping to set up, and Mike's pretending he doesn't need his dad to show him how to use the grill."

Lauren snorts, I grin, and Tyler rolls his eyes, exasperated.

"I'll go remind him that none of us want char grilled burgers, then," he says, and jogs off to do just that. I'm left with the food, and Mrs Newton leads the way to the kitchen. There, it's quickly apparent that the three of us aren't the only guests to provide dishes, and I'm a little relieved. There's a platter of chicken and shrimp skewers, two bowls of potato and fruit salad, respectively, two dozen cupcakes, and a decadent looking chocolate cake topped with sliced strawberries. Lauren and I add our haul to the lot, including Tyler's snacks, and afterwards, we make our way to the back patio.

"You made it," Jess cheers upon sight of us. She greets us both with hugs, Angela does too, and Mike approaches with a grin.

"Hey," he says, offers us hugs of his own, and adds, "It's good to see you guys. Glad you could make it."

"Wouldn't miss it, Mike," I answer, "Thanks for having us."

We chat briefly, about the weather and our mornings and what have you, but Mike returns to the grill shortly thereafter, and the girls and I make ourselves comfortable around the outdoor dining table.

Someone's spread out chips and dips and such, I help myself as Jess does, and inside the house, Mrs Newton starts to play the Eagles from her speakers.

"So, Ren, tell us about your date tonight," Jessica prods, "You haven't said anything about him."

"Or her," I interject. Jessica and Angela titter, Lauren offers me the side eye, but she doesn't protest the inclusion. Instead, she tells us about Riley Beers, a senior, whose mom is colleagues with Mrs Mallory. They've hung out frequently as of late, she's grown fond of him, and fortunately for her, he's grown fond of her, too.

"What's he like?" Angela asks. "I've seen him around school. He keeps to himself, doesn't he?"

"He does," Lauren confirms, "We like a lot of the same things though, and he makes me laugh. I'm hoping our date goes well, you know? I really like him."

"I'll keep my fingers crossed," Jessica vows. Angela and I offer her similar sentiments, but Ben and Eric's arrival derails any further 'girl talk', and instead, we tease Mike about his grilling skills, discuss new movie releases and the like, and bemoan the lack of cars and driver's licenses between us.

It is such that the afternoon passes, with good food, good music, and even better company, and it somehow feels as though I've known these people forever. Jess, Angela, and Lauren are so extraordinarily different in personality,, but they each draw me into the fold of their lifelong friendship with an openness I am unaccustomed to, and it is so very _easy_.

I have spirited debates with Lauren, about law and politics and justice, and we still somehow manage to share the same opinions regarding almost everything, from illegal immigration to abortion to assisted suicide. She is interesting and insightful and thought-provoking, and I have never known anyone else like her.

With Angela, I bond over literature, film and television, music, and comfortable, companionable silences. She is restful in a way Jess' boundless enthusiasm and Lauren's unabashed ambition are not, but she is compassionate and kind, and she is perhaps the nicest of all of us.

Jessica is bubbly and cheerful, bold and loud and outspoken, and we bond over a shared apathy for AP Spanish. She makes me laugh, with her dramatics, and her observations concerning our peers and teachers, but she somehow avoids the pitfalls into maliciousness and bullying, and I don't know how she manages it.

It's not quite so easy with the guys, not quite so seamless, but they _are_ friends, and I don't know how I've managed to get through the last 15 years of my life without any of them in it, guys and girls both. I've had friends before, of course, fellow dancers and classmates and kids in the same apartment building as Renee and I, but they'd taken time and effort to maintain, and I'd never been able to truly relax around any of them.

As Mike launches himself into the deep end of his pool, as Tyler rants passionately about white rap and all the things wrong with it, as Eric and Ben re-enact a scene from Star Wars with a couple of pool noodles and the obligatory light sabre sound effects, however, I don't dwell on it.

There are, after all, far more interesting things to focus on.

Billy Black and Harry Clearwater have featured in my life for as long as I can remember. They're my father's oldest and closest friends, a bond unhindered by the racial prejudices and discrimination they'd each faced as children in the 60's, adolescents in the 70's, and adults in the 80's. Their brotherhood - because that is what it is, I have no doubt - has endured through the disillusionment of my father's marriage, the death of Billy's wife, Sarah, and the (temporary) separation of Harry and his own wife, Sue. It has persisted through illness and distance and time, and I am completely, unabashedly envious.

I am no less fond of them, of course. They are family, those Charlie has chosen for himself, and those I have, subsequently, inherited.

With that in mind, I greet them both as I always do, with hugs and kisses on cheeks, and offer them the breakfast muffins I'd prepared the night before. As per usual, Billy savours the diabetic-friendly blueberry muffins I've made specially for him, and as he does,. Jacob and Seth make quick work of those I've set aside for them. I laugh as they horde their extras, and marvel at the appetites of growing boys.

Predictably, Leah is nowhere in sight. She hasn't attended one of these fishing trips for months - not since her ghastly breakup with Sam Uley - but regardless, I'm still disappointed by her absence. It'd be nice to catch up with her, but according to Seth, she's not the same snarky, clever young woman I remember from the year prior.

"Thanks, B," Jacob says, all earnest like. He's Billy's son, 14 years old, tall and gangly, and his smile can light up the sky.

"Anytime, J," I answer, and I mean it. It's just he and his dad these days, since Rachel and Rebecca had fucked off without even a 'by your leave' for the trouble, and money's tight. Charlie and I help out wherever possible, but we're not exactly rolling in it ourselves. Moreover, there's only so much we're able to get away with before they refuse the 'charity'.

I set up my fold-out chair beside Jake's on the jetty, bait my hook and cast my line, and then settle in to wait. I am content to sit in silence, to enjoy the early morning birdsong and the complete separation from any semblance of industrial sound pollution, but of course, Jake's a chatterbox and Seth is extremely thrilled to be in the company of high schoolers, so the afore-mentioned silence is short-lived.

I can't say I mind much. Jacob talks about his first week of ninth grade, his thoughts and observations and what have you. All the while, Seth listens attentively, and I resign myself to a distinct lack of fish caught.

"What about you, B?" Jacob asks, "What's Forks High like?"

I shrug, indifferent. "It's school. Nothing interesting."

I think briefly of my weird encounters with Alice Cullen, but I don't mention them. I have no desire for her - or her strange, ostentatious family - to rain on my day when they're not anywhere near the vicinity. I get enough of that at school, after all.

It turns out the effort is in vain, in any case, since Jacob brings them up instead.

"Have you met any of the Cullen children?"

"Yeah," I reluctantly confirm, "A couple of them are in my grade. They're weird."

"My dad says to stay away from them," Seth contributes.

"Yeah," Jacob agrees, "Mine too. He hates them. He won't say why, of course, just says some cryptic BS about enemies or whatever, but he's actually banned them from the Reservation. I asked him if he was being selectively racist, and he told me I'd understand one day. I mean, what the fuck does that even mean?"

I shrug, clueless, but admit that they give me the creeps. I avoid the (very) pale faces as often as possible, but Alice Cullen has a weird tendency to appear out of nowhere when I least expect it, and Edward Cullen has an equally as weird tendency to watch me whenever I cross paths with him in hallways or between buildings. I blessedly share no classes with him or his midget sister, but as previously mentioned, they bother me to no end. Behaviour aside, I can't quite put my finger on _why_ , but I can't deny there's something inherently _wrong_ about them.

"They're freaks," Seth offers, and I should chide him for calling people names. I don't.

"And this is why you should be attending the tribal school," Jacob adds sagely, "No weird white people to speak of."

I shake my head, chuckling, but do not reply. I'm pretty sure I have to be an actual resident of La Push to be a student on the Reservation's school, rather than just a member of the tribe, but either way, I don't care to endure the transfer process all over again. Once this year was enough for me, thank you very much.

 **Author's Note:** Apologies for the long wait. Moved house. I can't guarantee it won't happen again, but eh…

Anyway, thanks for all of your support. Hope you've enjoyed the chapter. Until next time, -t.


	4. Chapter 4

**North Star**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Twilight. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Four:**

 _ **Paul**_

When Leah Clearwater calls early on Sunday morning, hungover, exhausted, and in need of someone to switch shifts, I'm pissed, but I don't refuse. More money is always good money, and I'm relieved for the excuse not to attend church with my sister and grandparents. I've never been hugely devout, but whatever dregs of faith I _had_ possessed have self-destructed into non-existence with the death of my parents, and I've made it a habit to avoid services ever since.

The thing is, the Bible preaches that everything happens for a reason, that we are given nothing we cannot handle, and the very thought of either maxim is nauseating. It's selfish, but I can't fathom how God, or the Bible, or the Church can justify taking my and Naomi's parents from us, and the truth is, I don't want to.

John and Lani Lahote were successful, contributing members of society, were loving, devoted parents, were generous, compassionate philanthropists, and they died in a tragic accident that could have easily been avoided.

Where was God, then, when my family needed Him most?

"You're not coming, Pauley?" Grandma asks. She wears that disappointed frown of hers I've grown accustomed to, and it's enough to flood me with guilt. She's found comfort in the embrace of God where I have not, and although I can't fault her, I can't follow in her footsteps, either. Her disappointment blows, and I feel like the scum of the Earth.

"Leah needs me to cover her shift," I explain. Grandpa offers me the keys, but I gently refuse. "Don't worry about it, Gramps. I'll just walk."

Naomi hugs me as they leave, Grandma and Grandpa do too, and I make my way to the diner with my hands shoved in my pockets. Rainclouds churn overhead, but the air is cool and damp, and I'm wide awake by the time I reach my destination.

"Hey, Paul, honey," Sue Clearwater greets me. Her husband, Mr C, is nowhere in sight. Neither is Leah, but I expect as much. "Thanks for doing this on such short notice."

"No problem, Mrs C," I answer. I clock-in, don my waist apron, and gratefully accept the coffee she offers me, "I won't say no to some extra cash."

"I'm sure," she acknowledges mildly. A muscle ticks in her jaw, and I can't tell if she's more embarrassed or more annoyed by Leah's behaviour.

I've arrived just in time for the breakfast rush, and it's easy to fall into the routine of taking orders, delivering meals, and chit-chatting with the customers. As such, the morning passes in a monotonous haze, and it's only when Mrs Clearwater insists on taking one of my tables that anything truly captures my attention.

The table is host to a middle-aged white guy clad in flannel and jeans, accompanied by a teenaged girl of mixed descent, presumably his daughter. She's very pretty, unassuming and wholesome in a tank top and yoga pants, and although she hasn't grown into it completely, she's got the makings of an hourglass figure that is something to be appreciated.

I try not to stare, but I am struck, inexplicably, with the urge to paint this girl, with her lithe limbs and flushed cheeks and all the colours in her hair. I'm careful not to stare, but the effort it takes to look away is frankly absurd.

"Who are they?" I ask Emma. SHe's a waitress, but she's spent most of the morning at the counter, serving the customers there. She's 23, with a four year old son and a husband who is more absent than not, and she's insistent she spends enough time running after her son to work the tables, too.

I don't protest the arrangement. More customers means more tips, and besides,, I can't imagine it's easy to take care of a kid (practically) on your own. It's hard enough with Naomi, and I'm only a part-time babysitter.

She arches an eyebrow, surprised. "You don't know? I guess you wouldn't. That's Police Chief Swan and his daughter, Isabella. They're close with the Blacks and Clearwaters."

"Right," I acknowledge, and the conversation ends there. I'm not one to butt into business that isn't mine, and I've got more customers to focus on, anyway.

I finish my shift without further incident, but I am bemused to find Anna waiting for me when I leave the back room. As Jared's girlfriend, we're friendly, but I wouldn't necessarily call her a friend, so the fact that she's sought me out? It's weird as hell.

"What's up?" I ask.

"Have you heard from Jared recently?" She asks in turn, and I frown, bemused. Jared had said she's cool, laid back and chilled out unlike his first girlfriend, and I wonder at this unexpected descent into the realm of 'clingy' that she's previously disdained.

"Not since Thursday," I answer. He's apparently sick, so I'm not particularly concerned by the radio silence, but Anna looks as though she's barely slept for worrying.

"I went to his house to see how he's going, help him feel better or whatever, and his mom thought he was staying at your place over the weekend."

"Right," I acknowledge, tug roughly at the roots of my hair, and firmly suppress the desire to panic, "That's fucked."

It's unlike Jared to lie like that, and I wonder what he's playing at. I can't imagine he's doing anything illegal - he's too desperate to get out of La Push to risk it - but it's also uncharacteristic of him to disappear without notice, to lie about it, and to involve anyone in his drama - particularly without informing them, first.

Then again, a lot of Jared's recent behaviour isn't what I've come to expect of my oldest friend.

I sigh, weary, and already over and done with this shit, "I guess I'll call him when I get home."

Anna looks grateful. "Thanks, Paul. If you get in touch with him, can you tell him to give me a call?"

"Sure," I acquiesce, privately relieved that she doesn't ask me to keep her updated. I'm not even sure if I have her number, but in any case, I'm not about to ask for it.

Blessedly, Anna doesn't linger to chat, and I make my way to the door as she approaches the counter. As I do, I catch Isabella Swan's eye, struck, once again, by the way the light brings out the colours in her hair.

She blushes, her olive cheeks tinged the slightest shade of pink, and I leave before I do something stupid, like ask if I can immortalise her in canvas and acrylic. Given that we're complete strangers, I doubt that would go over well.

One can dream, anyway.

 _ **Jared**_

It's difficult not to stare at Emily Young's scars. They are stark against her coffee coloured complexion, pale pink and jarring, and I wonder - morbidly - if they hurt. Despite this, however, I wrench my gaze away from the imprint's face and all it's implications, and instead focus on the food she's prepared.

"Thank you, Emily," I say, and make a valiant effort to look her in the eyes. As I do, I offer her a forced smile. It's only the second time I've met her, and I wonder if she's as reluctant for me to be in her home as I am to be there. "This looks great."

"It's not much," she excuses, "But I figured you'd be hungry. Sam always is."

Sam grunts his acknowledgement. He's already halfway through the omelette Emily's prepared for him, eating with a single-minded sort of intensity that should not be reserved for food. At least, not unless you're Jamie Oliver, or one of those other white trash celebrity chefs all over the place these days.

I follow his lead, slower and less intent, and the silence that accompanies our meal is excruciating. It's not just that I'm a stranger in their home, at their table, and in their lives. It's also the matter of Emily and Sam's strained relationship, a house of cards built on a fraught, intangible foundation. It makes the meal awkward and uncomfortable, and by the time I've cleared away my plate, I'm desperate to leave.

Evidently, there is trouble in paradise, and if this is what I have to look forward to with an Imprint, I pray it will never happen to me.

"What grade are you in, jared?" Emily asks.

"Uh, I'm a Junior," I answer, fiddling mindlessly with my cutlery.

"Do you like school?"

"It's school," I shrug, nonchalant. I endure it for the sake of my future, but that's about it. "Paul makes it a little more interesting, but not by much."

Sam lifts his head from his sixth piece of toast. "Paul? Paul Lahote?"

"Yeah," I confirm, "Do you know him?"

It's a weird question to ask in La Push, but it's justified. Paul's spent his summers here, yes, but he doesn't know everyone, and in turn, not everyone knows him. It's a state of things that have started to change with his job at the diner, but since neither Sam nor Emily go there, I can't fathom where he's had the opportunity to learn of Paul.

"No," Sam denies, "I was just told to watch out for him, same as you. He's a descendant of Levi Uley, apparently."

I grimace, even as I am unsurprised by the revelation of my friend's ancestry. Paul's going to hate the very thought of phasing, never mind all that which goes with it. Admittedly, I'm not particularly fond of any of it either, but my best friend's life has become a series of upheavals over the last year, and the whole 'wolf' thing would just be another in a growing list of them. Even as I hope he doesn't join our ragtag pack, I'm selfishly comforted by the thought that I won't be enduring this fuckery alone.

"Are you two close?" Emily pries.

I shrug. "I've known him forever, you know? He's like my brother."

"Yeah," Emily says. Her expression is wistful, "I get that."

I'm careful not to pry. La Push is a small place, and as such, I'd seen, peripherally, the fallout of Sam and Leah Clearwater's explosive breakup a year prior. I have heard Paul bitch about his coworker on more occasions than I care to recall, and, more recently, I've seen snippets inside the pack mind (which is a fucking trip in and of itself), and I don't want to hash it out over the breakfast table, too.

Sam doesn't want to talk about it either, apparently, because he shoves his chair back from the table, takes his plate to the sink, and roughly scrubs it down with a washcloth. When he's done, he approaches the back door, and curtly gestures for me to follow him.

He doesn't acknowledge Emily at all.

I share a glance with the young woman, small and scarred and lonely at the hand-carved dining table, rinse my plate in the sink, and acquiesce without protest. As I do, I look forward to the moment I can leave their house and company, because I'm quickly growing to dislike Sam Uley, and I'm fairly certain the feeling is entirely mutual.

As I leave the house, the sound of my cellphone blares from the kitchen counter, loud and shrill with my newly sensitive hearing, and more than I can deal with right now. It's Anna, probably, or perhaps my mom, but either way, I have no idea what to say to them, no idea how I can and/or will explain the rapid physical changes I've just endured. As such, I pretend not to hear, and Sam, who thinks I should isolate myself from everyone until I'm in control, doesn't call my bluff.

For now, whoever is on the other end of the line can wait. The wolf will not.


	5. Chapter 5

**North Star**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Twilight. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Five:**

 _ **Bella**_

Monday morning brings with it a begrudging return to school, but I'm sure I've left a part of myself behind at some point during the weekend. It's a weird feeling, one that ensures I proceed with my morning routine in a daze, not quite _there_ until I'm in the Forks High parking lot, clustered around Lauren as Jessica pesters her for information regarding the former's date with Riley Beers. As the guys leave us to our hen's circle, I wait expectantly, interested despite myself, and Lauren preens as though she is the cat that's caught the canary. It's amusing, more so the fact she holds hostage all of the gossip Jessica waits impatiently to hear, and I can't look at Angela for want of laughing.

Instead, I cast my gaze over the parking lot. It's starting to fill up now, beat up cars and clusters of students, and I can't wait until I have a car (and a license) of my own. As I observe, however, I inadvertently catch the eye of Edward Cullen. He's been staring again, blatantly and unabashedly, and he doesn't look away when I make eye contact with him. I look away instead, unsettled and uncomfortable, and irritated by his audacity. I want him to be embarrassed, to look away with pink ears and a sheepish face, maybe with an apology (or twelve) on his tongue. He and his sister's attention the week prior was unwarranted and unwelcome, and I dread the thought of another week under the same scrutiny, never mind another year (or three).

It's a strange state of being, all things considered. I've seen some of my other classmates fawn over Edward Cullen and his family, strive for even the tiniest scrap of attention from the affluent, attractive siblings. In saying that, there is something so intrinsically _off_ about them, I can't fathom how those same classmates haven't been repulsed by them, or even noticed it.

Then again, perhaps it's not them, and instead, there's actually something wrong with me. Maybe I'm defective, or there is a glitch in my rampant teenaged hormones, because Edward Cullen and his siblings do nothing for me but incite a nigh irrepressible desire to run for the hills.,

"Is it considered sexual harassment if he just stares at me all day?" I ask.

"Uh," Angela flounders. Her eyes are wide, flatfooted by the enquiry, and I would perhaps laugh if I were not entirely serious.

Lauren hums thoughtfully, distracted from her conversation with Jessica. "Stalking, maybe? I don't know. You'd probably have to ask the Chief that one."

"Yeah, that'd go over well," I answer wryly. Charlie's not a helicopter parent by any means, but his history with the Seattle PD has left him disillusioned to the mirky depths of human depravity, and I'm not certain he'd be entirely reasonable where Edward and Alice Cullen's behaviour is concerned.

That is, of course, provided he doesn't just tell me I'm a hormonal, irrational teenaged girl who needs to calm the hell down and get the fuck over herself. I won't lie - I have considered the possibility. It's entirely plausible that I'm just a melodramatic headcase, but every fibre of my being screams at me that all five of them are a threat, the younger two in particular, and I can't shake the feeling.

"I wouldn't worry about it, Bella," Jessica opines, "We only ever see them at school, and there will never be an opportunity for them to catch you alone. Not here."

"Yeah," I half-heartedly acknowledge. I try not to think of Billy and Harry's Sunday morning advice to avoid the ochre-eyed siblings as much as humanly possible, and I fail spectacularly.

"I mean, what's the worst they can do?" Jessica adds, as optimistic as she is oblivious. She is, also, clearly not superstitious.

I share a wordless glance with Angela, frowning, and mutter grimly, "Famous last words, Jess. Famous last words."

As the bell blares loud and shrill across the school grounds, we disperse to our respective classrooms, and Angela links her arm through mine. It's hilariously awkward, because Angela's about six inches taller than I am, but we make it work. No doubt, we're a ridiculous site, but I don't care, and neither does Angela.

Oddly enough, I miss Eric on our walk to class. The three of us have fallen into something of a routine since my first day, made up of animated conversation and light-hearted banter, and I look around in search of our wayward friend.

There is no sign of him, and I worry.

Evidently, Forks High is not at all healthy for my state of mind, and I make a mental note to add another half hour to my meditation time.

Angela notices in her thoughtful, observant way, misinterprets my reason for concern, and lightly squeezes my arm against her side. "It'll be okay, Bella. You'll see, you'll be just fine. We all will."

Eric's absence aside, I wish I could have her faith.

-!- -#-

 _ **Jacob**_

There is another letter from Rebecca in the mailbox. It is predictably long-winded and rambling, focused primarily on her infant son, Marley, and I'm sure I hate her a little more than I did the day before. I don't know how that's possible, because I'm convinced I already despise her and Rachel with every fibre of my being, but nevertheless, the resentment and bitterness festers, and I want to burn the missive into so much ash.

The story goes that they left a week after graduating from high school, and I haven't seen them since. It's been two years, and our only contact from either of them is Rebecca's sporadic letters.

Hell, the only way we know Rachel's alive is because Rebecca mentions her. Frequently.

Evidently, dad and I aren't worth Rachel's time, or even a phone call from Rebecca, and as such, I've taken to pretending they're not related to me at all.

Billy, my father, beaten down, world weary, and unspeakably _tired_ , doesn't do the same. He hordes Rebecca's letters like they're gold, reads them over and over again until I'm sure he has them memorised, hides them away in a small, hand-carved chest to keep them safe, and I can't decide if I pity him, or if I'm disgusted by his behaviour.

Either way, I bite my tongue, aware my opinion will not be appreciated, and offer him the cereal and milk. He's perfectly capable of making his own breakfast, and I've learned over time not to get in his way.

After all, he might not have the use of his legs, but he still has his pride.

"I have to go to school," I say, put the milk back in the fridge and the cereal in the pantry, and glance expectantly at him, "Will you be all right?"

"I'll be fine, Jake," Billy answers, long-suffering.

Although I don't have much of a choice, I hesitate. Billy's got a bad track record of doing stupid shit in the name of pride and/or independence, and after the day I came home to find him bound to the couch because his chair was out of reach, I've grown reluctant to leave him home alone.

Admittedly, the chair had been moved by a well-intentioned, albeit misguided, Sue Clearwater on one of her frequent stops to check in, but regardless, I worry.

"You've got your phone?" I check.

"Yes, Mom." Dad rolls his eyes, but he offers me a fond grin. "Get out of here, you brat."

"All right, all right," I acquiesce, "I'm gone. Have a good day, Dad."

"You too, kid."

I leave the house, lock the door behind me, and make my way to school. It's close by, as everything is in La Push, and I make it there in time to witness someone's mom peel off in a Honda that's seen better days.

"What's up, dude?" Quil greets. He gives a lazy punch to my arm as Embry, slumped on the bench beside him, yawns hugely. He's not a morning person.

"Nothing. You?" I don't mention the letter from Rebecca. They'll just get angry on my behalf, and no one else's day has to be ruined before it's even begun.

Quil shrugs, nonchalant. "Same old shit."

As I hum my acknowledgement, Quill stretches his arms over his head, and offers a passing sophomore girl an appreciative wolf-whistle. He receives a filthy glare for the trouble, but Quill is unruffled, and beside me, Embry is exasperated.

"Keep it in your pants, jackass."

"Please," Quil scoffs, "The girls love it."

"Maybe on Planet Quil," I answer.

"Seriously, you're giving us a bad rep," Embry grouses. If he's not left to his mindless, morning haze, then he's pretty grouchy, which is ironically when he is probably the most vocal. At least when I'm not on the receiving end, it is entertaining as hell. "All the chicks think we're pigs."

Predictably, Quil laughs off his words with careless, unflappable ease. He's always been like that, easy-going and happy-go-lucky, and I don't know how he manages it. Between his grandfather, his mom, and the Quileute Tribal Council, Quil has a lot of pressure on his shoulders, a lot of expectations to fulfil, and somehow, that reality never brings him down.

I wish I could say the same for myself, but I really, truly can't. More often than not, I just feel _angry_ , and although I've become something of an expert at faking the good vibes, it doesn't change the facts. I'll never forgive Rachel and Rebecca for leaving me with the responsibility of our disabled father, and between Billy's poor health and the reality that I will one day become Chief of the Quileute Tribe, I'm stuck. It pisses me off just thinking about it, and I can't fathom how Quill is completely unfazed by it all.

As the school bell rings shrilly in my ears, Embry frowns at me, concerned. I offer him a shrug, get to my feet, and meander my way to my first class. They follow, still bickering over Quil's behaviour, and despite myself, I laugh.

Embry grins, triumphant, and I don't know what I'd do without friends like mine.


	6. Chapter 6

**North Star**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Twilight. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Note:** A fair bit of language in this one. I tried to keep it tasteful, but hey, Paul's temper, what can you do?

 **Chapter Six:**

 _ **Paul**_

"What the hell, asshole? Where the fuck have you been?"

Although aware, peripherally, that I sound like a possessive boyfriend, I don't retract my question (re: demand for answers(.

It's Monday morning, Jared is in front of me, about four inches taller and broader than he had been a week prior, his hair cropped close to his scalp, and one of his upper arms marked by a tribal tat I've never seen. Even as it appears as though he's aged six years in as many days, it also looks as though he's been shooting steroids up to his eyeballs, and I am pissed beyond belief. Not only have I been pestered by Anna for most of the weekend, but I am also not impressed by the way Jared has involved me in this bullshit, whatever it is.

"Calm your tits, dude," Jared answers mildly. His gaze is sharp though, and a muscle ticks in his bristled jaw. He couldn't be bothered to shave, evidently, and I can't remember a day when he's never made the effort to appear his best.

Honestly, I can't decide what disturbs me most: the newfound apathy for himself and the future he has worked towards for forever, the lack of consideration for those whom he surrounds himself with, or his particular method of, I don't even know - self-destruction? Rebellion?

I scoff. "Fuck off, jackass, and explain to me why I had to lie to your fucking mom about where you were this weekend."

"I had things to do."

"Yeah, so did I, and yet I spent most of my weekend fending off phone calls from your fucking girlfriend, and I want a goddamn explanation why, fuckhead."

"And you'll get one," Jared answers, "Just not right now, okay, dude? Trust me on this, all right? You'll find out soon enough."

Entirely unappeased by his reply, I'm about to insist on an explanation _now_ , but Anna approaches before I can. She's on the warpath, livid beyond belief, and I walk away before I can be pulled into yet another one of their fights. Quite frankly, I'm afraid I might punch Jared in the face if I stay any longer, and I have no desire to get pulled into the principal's office when my second week at La Push High has barely begun. Moreover, Jared's suddenly the size of a gorilla, and despite my background in Martial Arts, I'm not sure I could take him.

Not without copping a beating of my own, anyway.

While Anna and Jared get into it, I try to walk off my bout of temper, but it's a struggle. It's rather bizarre, actually, because I've predominantly existed in a state of calm bordering apathy for months now, and I can't remember the last time I've been truly angry. Irritated, certainly, occasionally scornful, but I haven't been genuinely infuriated to the point of trembling since those first few months after the accident, when those initial stages of grief had been sharp and poignant and entirely too _real_ for anyone's comfort.

The therapist Naomi and I see says it's the depression, that I have to work through it in spite of the complete and utter lack of motivation to do so, and I have tried. There are few things in this world I genuinely give a shit about, however, which is why the anger is such a surprise. Jared's my bro, yeah, but at the end of the day, his life is his own and he can do whatever the hell he wants with it. I should not be so effected by something that is none of my business.

I exhale harshly, sweep both my hands through my hair, and tug roughly at the roots. As I do, the first bell rings shrilly across the school grounds, and I begrudgingly make my way to my first class. It's Senior English, focused on British Literature and Creative Writing, and I spend most of the hour attempting to translate 'Othello' into something that makes sense.

If nothing else, it's a spectacular distraction, but it unfortunately doesn't last. Instead, I catch sight of Jared between classes, and at the start of our lunch break, and it is enough to make me grind my teeth.

I'm tempted to sit somewhere else for lunch, but I don't actually _know_ anyone else, and thus I buy my meal, drop into the seat across from Jared, and absently chow down on the food provided. As I do, I note the distinct absence of Anna at Jared's side, and it's enough to peak my interest.

"Where's Anna?"

Jared grimaces. "She broke up with me. Said we fight too much, and it's making her miserable, and after my bullshit this weekend, she was done."

"Dude," I sigh, and flounder. I have no idea what to say, because it sucks, but I can't really fault Anna for her decision. Moreover, I'm still pissed at Jared for the bullshit over the weekend, and I'm just his friend, but either way, it leaves me disinclined towards feeling sympathy for his plight.

Jared shrugs, and attempts a half-hearted smile. "What can you do, right?"

"Right," I agree with a nod, and there's nothing else I can say. It's just a shit day, all' round, and I'm sure we're both ready for it to be over.

 _ **Bella**_

I sign up for the debating team, and I join the school newspaper. It's a whim, but Lauren's in the former, Angela in the latter, and I'll be in good company, at least. Moreover, the extracurricular activities are good for college applications, and although I'm still undecided about university, and generally terrified of life post-graduation, I'm at least determined to keep my options open.

"Are you going to sign up for any sports?" Jessica asks.

"Here? In Forks? What's the point?"

"Touché," Jess concedes. "Were you on any sports teams in Seattle?"

"Um, yeah," I confirm, "Mom and Dad are pretty big on the extracurricular thing. My old school had a dance troop, and I was on the Artistic Gymnastics team, as well."

The only reason Charlie's not plugging the extracurricular activities here, in Forks, is because there are significantly less options to choose from. It's why he's started to nudge me in the direction of a part-time job instead, and I'm inclined towards acquiescing to his entirely unsubtle prodding.

"Not cheerleading?" Tyler quips.

I scoff. "You wish, Crowley."

Lauren throws a french fry at his face. "Pig."

Tyler holds his hands up, surrendering. "Shut up, we were all wondering it. Have you seen her legs?"

I'm simultaneously flattered and embarrassed, and I have no idea how to respond to the implied compliment. I laugh though, with the others, good-natured and good-humoured, and the remainder of our lunch hour passes in the same vein. Lauren drags me off to our next class afterwards, and the afternoon crawls by. I'm bored out of my mind, but the final bell eventually heralds the end of the school day, and I meet Tyler for our usual walk home. It's cold, the sort of chill that seeps deep into your bones, and the walk's rarely seemed so long.

"Is it Friday yet?" Tyler greets me.

"I wish," I answer, "I have this horrible feeling that this week's going to last forever."

"You and me both," he exhales, "Doesn't help that we just got an ass heap of homework, right?"

"Right," I agree.

As we exit the parking lot, Rosalie Hale screeches passed us in her cherry red overcompensating-for-something BMW, and Tyler and I scoff our derision.

"Entitled bitch," I mutter. Tyler nudges me lightly, chuckling, and I roll my eyes. "What? It's true! Have you seen the way she looks at us? As if we're fucking inferior, or something, God! It pisses me off! Besides, who the fuck gets a convertible in Forks? It defies logic!"

"Preaching to the choir, girl," Tyler answers. He sounds unbelievably weary, and looks it, too. "Might as well get used to it, right? A lot of people are going to think like her."

Inexplicably, I feel like crying. The tears prickle behind my eyelids, the sob lodges in my throat, and I really don't want to hear what Tyler has to say. In fact, I'm not sure I'd be able to _handle_ what he has to say, and I shake my head. I want to cover my ears, close my eyes to this suddenly serious conversation, and maybe that's petulant, or juvenile, or what-the-fuck-ever, but ignorance is bliss, and I'm quite happy with my blissful ignorance.

"I don't want to talk about this right now," I say, "Can we not?"

Tyler scrutinises my expression, and nods solemnly. "All right, Bella. If that's what you want."

The rest of the walk to our street is spent in awkward, stilted silence, and it's almost a relief when I make it home.

Tyler, who hasn't walked up the porch, offers me a wave and a forced smile, and a promise to catch me later. I reciprocate all three, watch him walk away, and then retreat inside, far from the tension that has lingered between us for the last 25 minutes.

I shuffle upstairs, get changed into a pair of sweats and an oversized T-shirt, sans bra, and settle in to make a start on that day's homework. I'm distracted though, perturbed by the conversation I'd just thwarted, and all the implications thus.

Disturbed, and oddly fretful, I resort to my usual fallback: I call my mom. I haven't spoken to her very often since my move, mostly because she's been rapt up in her own. She's since settled in Miami, however, with a job teaching in a High School with a demographic made up primarily of Latin American and African American students. Phil, her new husband, works at the same school, coaching baseball, and they are happy, satisfied with their new home and their new jobs, and their lives far from the cold wet of Washington State.

Although I've likely disturbed her during her grading time before dinner, she greets me fondly, warmly, kindly, and I sigh, eased by the familiar sound of her voice. Despite my contentment in Forks, I've missed her immensely.

"Hey, Mom, how are you?"

"A lot better than you, honey. What's wrong?"

I sigh again, weary this time, and wonder where I ought to start, and I figure the easiest part would be best. "There's this kid in school, he makes me really uncomfortable, and I don't know what to do about it…"

 **Author's Note:** Apologies for the wait. I couldn't decide on the second POV. It was a toss-up between Jared and Sam, and then Bella just elbowed her way in out of left field…

Anyway, leave a review? I kind of really want to know what you guys think of how I've written Paul and Bella. Other than that, thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed. Until next time, -t.


	7. Chapter 7

**North Star**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Twilight. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Seven:**

 _Bella_

The 13th of September dawns dull and dreary, though I don't expect much else of Forks, Washington. In any case, the weather, despite it's valiant efforts, can't bring down my mood, and after I proceed through my usual morning routine, I bounce downstairs with a skip in my step and a grin on my face. I'm 16 years old today, and after school, I'm slated to sit the driving test that will determine whether or not I can get my provisional license. If all goes well, I'll be able to drive (legally and independently) by the end of the day, and not even the thought of a pop quiz in Trigonometry can bring me down.

"Happy Birthday, Bells," Charlie greets me with a hug, a bristly kiss on the cheek, and a breakfast of toast, yoghurt, and sliced fruits. He's even boiled a couple of eggs for me, and although I don't expect I'll be able to eat it all, I appreciate the gesture regardless.

"Thanks, Dad," I acknowledge, briefly squeeze him tighter, and then release him to his red face and inaudible grumbling, "You didn't have to make breakfast for me, you know?"

He shrugs. "Not every day my only child turns 16. Can't cook you pancakes, but can at least save you the effort of making breakfast yourself."

"Well, I appreciate it," I inform him, "It looks great. Thank you."

Opting for a glass of orange juice in lieu of my usual chai tea, I drop into the seat across from Charlie, and dig into my breakfast with enthusiasm. As always, I'm famished, and despite my earlier doubts, I finish the meal with ease.

"You're picking me up after school, right?"

Charlie huffs a laugh, and rolls his eyes. I've pestered him about this on and off all week, but he's been pretty indulgent, thus far. This time is no exception. "Yes, Bells, I'm picking you up after school."

"Okay, cool," I acknowledge, "I'll see you later, then. Have a nice day."

"You too, Bells."

I leave the house with a smile on my face, and as usual, Tyler waits for me at the end of the street.

"Happy Birthday, B," he greets me with a hug, and although things are still a little awkward between us, the sentiment is genuine.

"Thanks," I acknowledge with a smile. We walk on, towards school, chat idly about school and TV shows we've watched recently, and we both carefully avoid the proverbial elephant in the room. We'll have to talk about it at some point, I know, but at least for today, I intend to let the subject be.

Tyler does too, it seems.

"Do you have anything special planned for your birthday?" Tyler asks. We're in the Forks High parking lot at this point, and I can see the others in front of the main building, clustered together, and watching our approach.

"Other than a visit to the Department of Licensing this afternoon, not really."

"That's so dope though," Tyler says, "I'm stupidly jealous."

I'm bulldozed by an exuberant Jessica before I can reply, and I'm quickly passed around for a series of hugs and birthday wishes. I'm surprised, also, by the presents offered, and even as I accept them graciously, I insist that the effort wasn't necessary. I've only known these people a short while, after all, and although it feels as if I've known them forever, I can't guarantee the sentiment is reciprocal.

"Don't be silly," Jessica rebukes, "Of course it was necessary, you're our friend. What did you think, we'd do nothing? Pfft."

"What she said," Lauren agrees, her arm linked through mine, "Turning 16 is a big deal, you know?"

"Evidently," I acknowledge wryly. "Thanks, guys, you really know how to make a girl feel special."

Mike buffs his nails on his shirt, and offers me a cheesy grin. "What can I say, I'm just that awesome."

Jess shoves him with a scoff. "And what are we, you ass, chopped liver?"

Mike raises his hands, in surrender or supplication, I'm not too sure. "You said it, girl."

As they begin to squabble, the rest of us - Ben, Eric, Angela, Lauren, myself, and Tyler - watch on, unabashedly entertained by their byplay. They bicker like an old married couple, and I wonder how long it's going to take for them to notice, or to do something about it.

Alas, the levity doesn't last. The school bell blares shrill across the school grounds, and I begrudgingly make my way to Trigonometry. Angela and Eric accompany me, of course, the latter lamenting the pop quiz that awaits us in class, the former quietly resigned to our fate.

At the door to our classroom, I smile at my friends. "Spartans, prepare for battle."

Eric bites back a chuckle, and continues, "For tonight, we dine in hell."

"Goodness," Angela rolls her eyes, "It's just a quiz."

"Ah, our voice of reason," Eric says theatrically. He slings an arm over Angela's shoulder, and it's rather comical, because she's about four inches taller than him. "What would we do without you?"

They walk into Mr Cassidy's class ahead of me, I follow, and we drop carelessly into seats near the middle of the room. I busy myself with gathering the things I'll need - stationery, calculator, paper - as my peers filter in, and when I glance up again, Edward Cullen is seated directly in front of me.

I flinch, startled and horrified, and my good cheer dissipates like smoke in the wind.

In fact, I kind of want to vomit.

-!- -#-

 _Jacob_

The Quileute Health Centre isn't particularly crowded, though that's no surprise. In a tribe this small, it's rare that the clinic is ever busy, and although it makes for shorter waiting times, the waiting itself is still as nerve-racking. It's perhaps when I worry the most, when the reality of my father's poor health is most poignant, when the absence of Rachel and Rebecca is the most cutting.

At 14, I shouldn't be here, attending my father's medical checkups. I shouldn't require a hardship license to drive him to and from, shouldn't have to take careful note of my father's blood pressure, blood sugar, cholesterol. I shouldn't have to take careful note of adjustments to his medication, shouldn't have to remain perpetually cognisant of his diet, and all the rest of it.

At the very least, I shouldn't have to do it alone.

Admittedly, my father's friends do what they can, Charlie, and Harry, and Sue, and I'm more grateful for them than I can truly say. Since her return, Bella's made an effort to help out, and my father's sisters try as well; when they're not wrangling their respective broods of children, that is.

At the end of the day, however, I'm the unfortunate bastard left with a man who is too proud to accept help, too stubborn to accept that he's sick, and conversely too world-weary to put any effort into improving his quality of life. In fact, most of the time, I'm half convinced he's just waiting to die, to join my mom in whatever comes _after_ , but I don't have the balls to ask, and I don't think he'd give me an honest answer if I did.

Either way, I can't decide if I hate myself more for thinking it, or Billy for giving me a reason to.

"Chief Black," Dr. Carpenter's voice projects across the waiting room. Eyes turn towards us, curious and pitying and all the rest of it, and I grind my teeth.

Of course, all they see is the wheelchair. All they see is the man aged before his time, frail and tired, and I think I hate them too.

On auto-pilot, I push my father's wheelchair into the exam room Dr. Carpenter guides us towards, and I drop gracelessly into one of the patient's seats available therein.

"You've grown," Dr Carpenter observes. He and Dad have already exchanged the usual pleasantries, made a little more informal by the fact they'd attended the reservation's only high school together.

I force a smile. "I guess that's par for the course, right?"

"That's right," Dr Carpenter agrees, "The way you're going, I bet you'll be as big as your old man."

He and I both glance at the man in question, quiet and diminished, far removed from the same man who'd once loved, laughed, _lived_ so freely. It's sometimes hard to believe he's the same figure from my childhood, quick to joke, to grin, to play. A lot has changed since then, and I wish, desperately, to go back to those days.

I'm sure I'm not the only one.

-!- -#-

 _Paul_

Dr. Marks is a child psychologist who specialises in grief therapy, and Naomi and I have been seeing him for six months. I'd been reluctant to start visiting him at first, but my grandfather had eventually used the Naomi card - did I really want to hinder her ability to move on from the tragedy that had just torn apart our family? - and, begrudgingly, I had acquiesced.

Months later, and I can concede that Dr Marks has likely helped us both immensely. Mostly, I find comfort in the facts, knowing the various stages of grief, learning to recognise what I'm feeling, and how they relate to the anger, the bargaining, the denial, depression, and/or acceptance.

In truth, it's also nice to just be able to talk out what I'm feeling with someone who is completely impartial, and although I'd be heckled mercilessly for it if anyone found out, I can't bring myself to give a shit. Mind you, I'm not shouting out the fact I'm seeing a shrink from the rooftops, but I'm not about to deny it if someone asks, either. Not that anyone has, or likely will in future.

In her car seat, Naomi sings along to some Top 40 trash on the radio, and I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. I hate this car - it's my mom's, or was, rather - and so I use it infrequently. It's more fuel efficient than Grandpa's piece of shit station wagon though, and therefore, it's the only car I'm allowed to use for the commute to Port Angeles.

"We gonna stop for dinner, Paulie?"

"On the way home, Nay-Nay, like always," I answer, "You'll have to think about what you want to get."

It's turned into something of a tradition, just between Naomi and I, and it's pretty much the only thing about our weekly sojourns to Port Angeles that I look forward to. Naomi's a bright, effervescent light in the darkness of my life, and sometimes, I can pretend it's just another one of our Paul and Naomi outings from before the accident. But then, inevitably, she'll bring up something that will, in turn, bring me crashing back to reality, and the all-consuming grief will come crashing back down, too.

I sigh to myself, pull up in front of our therapist's office, and help her out of her carseat.

Something tells me it's going to be a long, arduous session, and I am not looking forward to it.

Naomi slips her hand in mine, looks up at me through big, unassuming brown eyes, and I muster up all the will power I can. Not for me - perhaps never for me - but for Naomi? I'd do anything.

 **Author's Note:** I'm sorry for the long wait. The muse pulled me away from Paul and Bella and the gang for a while, but fear not, I'm not giving up on these guys. Not yet, anyway.

This chapter turned out a lot more bleak than I'd expected, but this is how the muse wanted it to be written. Paul's in a really dark place right now, and Jacob's got a lot of anger inside him. As for Bella?

Well, her problems are self-explanatory, aren't they?

Anyway, thanks for reading. Leave a review? Until next time, -t.


	8. Chapter 8

**North Star**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Twilight. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Eight:**

 _Paul_

I proceed through the remainder of my week on auto-pilot, detached and disinterested in everything but Naomi. Jared's too busy to notice, rapt up in a new volunteering gig he's got with the tribal council, and both of my grandparents are reluctant to overstep my boundaries, or perhaps their own. I'm not too sure which, but I can't bring myself to care, either way, and instead, I wear my apathy like an old, favoured sweater, and the days pass me by in a mindless haze of school, work, and sleep.

Depression is a terrible, insidious friend. I'm aware it's there, aware it's what causes my present state of being, but it also inspires a complete lack of motivation to do anything about it. I keep on, anyway, because Naomi needs me, and I'd also made a promise to move on with my life, to never give up. I have no intentions of reneging on it now. Not when it's one of the last things Mom ever asked of me.

"Are you all right, Paul?" Mr Clearwater asks. He wears a concerned frown on his face, and it seems as though he can see right through me. "You don't seem yourself, son."

"I'm fine, Mr C," I answer. I fidget with the fries accompanying my burger. What dregs of appetite I've stubbornly clung onto through my downward spiral, thus far, are lost. "Ready for the weekend. You know how it is."

Mr Clearwater nods his head, though he frowns still, and he is unconvinced. He doesn't prod, however, and instead attempts a smile. "The Council's hosting a bonfire on Saturday. Everyone's welcome, of course. I believe your grandmother intends to make an appearance?"

"Yeah," I confirm, and pray he ends this conversation soon, "She mentioned it."

"Well," Mr Clearwater says, claps his hands on his thighs, and lifts himself from the table in the break room, "Hope to see you there, son. I'd love to see more of the next generation interested in our culture."

"I'll think about it," I say, noncommittal, and Mr Clearwater nods his acknowledgement as he leaves.

I'd said the same thing to Grams, and she's since stopped asking me to confirm or deny, either way. She expects I'll say 'no', no doubt, and whether or not it's because she's resigned herself to the fact, or she's opted to spare herself the disappointment, I'm selfishly glad I don't have to (verbally) let her down. Again.

I've gotten far too good at it, already.

Begrudgingly, I choke down the remainder of my dinner, and return to the dining area to complete the rest of my shift. Emma keeps me company, with her anecdotes about her son, with her caustic commentary about the night's patrons, and before long, it's closing time, and there's a full tip jar with my name on it.

"Plans for the weekend?" Emma asks.

"Not really," I shrug, "You?"

"Same old," Emma answers, "Work, chores, Eli. I've got Sunday off though, so that'll be nice."

"You deserve it," I acknowledge.

She smiles fondly, and pats my cheek. "You're a good kid, Paul. I'm sorry life sucks for you right now. I hope it gets better soon."

"Yeah," I sigh, inexplicably weary, "Me too."

I help Emma clean and lock up the diner, and once we've both clocked off, she offers me a lift home. I'd intended just to walk, certain the fresh air would do me some good, but it's started raining at some point during my shift, and the downpour shows no indication of stopping. As such, I accept Emma's offer gratefully, and squeeze myself into the passenger seat of her beat up little Camry.

"Sorry about the mess," Emma says, chagrined.

"Not a problem," I assure her, "My car looks the same."

It's not a lie, either. There are child-sized shoes and clothes, toys, assorted books, pencils, and crayons strewn about the back seat of my car, finger prints on my windows, and the sticky residue of juice, and whatever else, on the leather seats. Mom would have an apoplexy if she could see it, and I've been putting off cleaning it out for weeks.

Emma smiles wryly. "Kids, right?"

"Kids," I agree, and I've never felt more like a parent. It's jarring.

-!- -#-

 _Jared_

When I wake on Friday morning, it's to the knowledge that I've got a quiz in Pre-Calculus I've barely studied for, and to the sound of my younger sisters, Jennifer and Jessica, squabbling over which of them ought to get first dibs on the bathroom. Outside the house, it's pouring, and in the kitchen, my parents are talking in low, murmured conversation about me, my change in behaviour, the supposed change in my priorities, the changes in my physical appearance, and all the rest of it. Mom wonders out loud if I'm on drugs, Dad refuses to hear it, and all in all, it's an inauspicious start to an altogether unpleasant day.

All the same, I begrudgingly haul myself out of bed, get ready for school, and blearily stumble into the kitchen in search of sustenance.

"Morning, Jay," Mom greets. I fill up a mixing bowl with cereal, add milk, and make myself comfortable at the breakfast table. Dad glances at my meal, nonplused, but refrains from commenting.

"Hey," I acknowledge.

"Hungry?" Mom asks. She attempts to pull off 'casual' as she does so, but she mostly comes off as judgemental.

I try not to begrudge her for it. Mom's just concerned, and it's not as though I can give her the answers she wants. Sam and the Tribal Council have stymied me in that regard, and although I can't fathom why on Earth I can't tell my parents (both of whom are Quileute) the truth, I'm in no place to change anyone's mind.

"Starving," I answer. Dad ruffles his newspaper.

At the back of the house, Jess and Jenny start arguing again. This time, it's about their respective outfits for school, and Mom wanders off to make sure there is no bloodshed involved.

As she does, Dad reads his newspaper, unfazed. I sigh, eat my breakfast, and resign myself to a long, arduous day.

I'm already eager for it to be over.

I trudge through my day as though I'm wading through molasses; slowly, arduously, exhaustively. My morning classes are a mindless blur, for the most part, but I somehow manage to stay afloat in my Maths test, and it's enough to leave me optimistic for the afternoon ahead.

As such, I smile as I gather up my things to leave the classroom, and beside me, Kimberley Carter drops her pencil on the floor between us.

I hunch over to pick it up, and glance at her as I return it. She's a thin, willowy girl with her hair in a braid and square-framed glasses on her face, and I've never spoken a word to her. It's a little weird, because, since grade school, we've sat next to each other in every class we share (those with alphabetised seating, anyway),, but I suppose we've both been far too rapt up in our own lives, and our own plans, to consider it.

That's what I tell myself, at least.

"Here you go," I tell her, and she accepts the pencil with a sheepish laugh. Her smile's pretty, and as I meet her gaze, I note - absently, that her eyes are, too. For the most part, however, I'm preoccupied by the influx of everything else I'm flooded with as the eye contact lingers; the surreal sensation of gravity giving way for the girl beside me, and an unequivocal, inexplicable sense of completion - of wholeness - I'd not realised I had been lacking.

I wrench my gaze away from hers, utterly floored, and try to remember how to breathe. As I do, I wander out of class on autopilot, and in front of me, Kimberly Carter reunites - quite passionately - with the same boyfriend she's had for the last three years.

I comb my hand through my cropped hair as I turn away, frustrated, exasperated, displeased. I'm sure the girl's nice and all, but I'd not wanted to imprint - I still don't, in fact - but if Sam's experience is anything to go by, I doubt I'll have much of a choice (re: none at all) in the matter.

Evidently, the Spirits hate us. That's all right though, because gods know, I think I'm beginning to hate them, too.

-!- -#-

 **Author's Note:** There's supposed to be a Sam POV in this chapter, but Sam didn't want to cooperate with me. Guess he's being shy. Hope you're satisfied with Paul and Jared, at least. Let me know in a review?

Thanks for reading. Until next time, -t.


	9. Chapter 9

**North Star**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Twilight. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Nine:**

 _Bella_

I embrace the weekend with a grateful sigh, unspeakably relieved to get away from Forks High School, and from Edward Cullen, in particular. He's transferred into most of my classes, has made an effort to sit close by me in every single one of them, and is either oblivious to - or uncaring of - the fact I am not at all pleased, impressed, or charmed by the change, or by the obvious effort expended to see it through.

Mercifully, I have wonderful, amazing friends who are equally as perturbed by Edward Cullen's persistence (re: harassment), and in the last three days, I have not only been witness to some of the most creative efforts in avoidance and diversion I've ever seen, but I've also knowingly, willingly, and cheerfully participated in them, too.

"Weekend plans?" Tyler asks. He's slouched in the passenger seat of my new truck, his eyes on the roiling clouds overhead, but his body is turned in my direction, and I don't doubt that he's waiting for my response.

"There's a tribe only bonfire on Saturday night," I answer, "I thought I'd head down, visit with my mom's side of the family, you know?"

"Sounds good," Tyler acknowledges, "What are the bonfires like?"

"They're great," I enthuse, "Though calling it a bonfire is a bit of a misnomer. It goes all day, like a picnic day, you know? It's like a beachside barbecue, potluck thing, but after nightfall, they set up the bonfire, and Billy - he's the Chief of the Tribe - tells some of the legends around our peoples origins, things like that. Not everyone stays to listen, but I've always been fascinated by them, so I figure I'll stick around until the stories wrap up. Anyway, what about you? Any plans?"

Tyler shrugs. "Not really. The guys were talking about a game night - you know, Halo and Call of Duty or whatever? - but I've never really been into that. I might go anyway though. Eric's Mom's dumplings are amazing."

I laugh as I pull into my driveway. "That's such a guy thing to do. The video game thing, I mean."

Tyler grins wryly at me from over the hood of my truck. It's an old, rusted red monstrosity, and a 16th birthday present from Charlie, to boot. I adore it to pieces.

"I guess it's a stereotype for a reason."

"I suppose so," I concede.

Tyler and I chat for a little longer, but he eventually heads home to unwind from what has turned out to be a spectacularly unpleasant week, and I retreat inside to do the same. Unwinding, of course, involves baking brownies, an ice cream sundae for dinner, and binge watching 'Criminal Minds', 'NCIS', and 'Law & Order: SVU', but Charlie's on the late shift, and I have no regrets.

Unsurprisingly, I fall asleep on the couch, and when I wake, I'm covered by one of Nana Swan's hand-knitted blankets, and the late news is on. With the volume turned down low, Charlie's munching on a slice of pepperoni pizza in his trusty recliner, and I relax further against the couch, content and comfortable.

At present, safe in my father's care, there is nowhere else I'd rather be.

On Saturday, Charlie whoops my ass during another morning run, and I pretend to believe him when he says I'm improving. I'm optimistic that my endurance will improve when I start up my new dance classes at the only studio in town, but in any case, it's not something I brood over.

Instead, after my morning round of Yoga (and breakfast, of course), I begrudgingly proceed through what chores I haven't completed throughout the week, and afterwards, I drive down to the supermarket in order to stock up on groceries and the like.

When I return home, it's to find Charlie's folded all the laundry, cleaned the kitchen, and mowed the lawn. He's in the midst of beating the hedges in the backyard - the ones that line the fence between us and our only neighbours - into submission, and I leave him to it with a fond, endeared grin.

God, I love my father.

After I pack away the groceries, I vacuum the carpets, mop the floors, and clean the bathroom. It's the last item on my to-do list, so when I'm done, I return to the kitchen and make up an early lunch for myself and Charlie. It's nothing special - just sandwiches, with a side of potato chips and soda - but the Chief demolishes three of them, and a brownie from the night before, as well.

"Plans for tonight, Bells?" Charlie asks. He insists on washing the dishes, and while he does that, I get started on the potato salad, and the (separate) fruit salad I intend to take down to La Push.

"I was going to head down to La Push for the bonfire," I answer.

Charlie nods, satisfied. He's got plans to catch a game with a few of his buddies from work, but if I were to stay home, he'd have probably felt bad about it. It's a bit absurd, feeling guilty over something like that, but it's not as though I can stop him.

"I'll let Billy know you're headed down."

"Thanks," I acknowledge, and continue on with my food prep. As I do so, time flies, and before I know it, it's passed two in the afternoon, and La Push calls my name.

Thomas Littlesea meets me at the parking lot by First Beach, tall and barrel-chested, with salt and pepper hair and a scar above his eyebrow. He's my uncle, a jovial, good-natured fellow quick to laugh, and even quicker to smile.

"There's my favourite niece," he greets me cheerfully, laughing as he pulls me into a hug. He spins us around while we embrace, and it's as though I'm a little girl again. "Where the hell have you been, Izzy-B? I haven't seen you in a month."

"I've been around," I answer, shrugging and smiling, "Just busy. How are things, Uncle?"

"Oh you know how it is, same old shit, different day."

"I can't imagine that," I answer, tone droll, but shrug the thought of school off quickly. No use making myself miserable. "Are you here to help me carry the food?"

"That's me," Uncle Thomas confirms, "Pack mule. I even brought my protege."

Collin appears then, 10 years old, bright-eyed and exuberant in a way I'm sure I've never been. He's one of the few cousins Jacob and I share, through my uncle and Jacob's aunt, and he is the spitting image of Uncle Thomas.

"Aunt Linda's not here yet, so neither are the others," Collin explains.

Aunt Linda is the eldest of the six Littlesea siblings, and aside from Uncle Thomas, the only one to have remained in La Push. She's perpetually late to everything, and although it's occasionally frustrating as far as her siblings are concerned, it's also become something of a running joke among everyone else in the family.

In this particular instance, 'the others' are my and Collin's cousins. Aunt Linda's older boys have since left the nest, but her younger children, Ryan, Simon, and Terrence are underage and therefore still around.

Usually, they act as pack mules, too.

"Why does that not surprise me?" I acknowledge wryly, and carefully deposit the bowl of fruit salad in Collin's twiggy arms, "Don't drop that."

"I won't," Collin assures, and wanders off to where his mother, Aunt Jenny, holds down the fort. Her youngest, Micaylah, crawls around the picnic blankets, but her other two - Isaiah and Aaron - run wild in the shallows, and they beckon for Collin to join them.

As older siblings are apparently prone to do, Collin ignores them. I wouldn't know, of course.

I deposit the potato salad on the picnic blanket Aunt Jenny's reserved for our food, Collin does the same with the fruit salad, and Uncle Thomas brings up the rear with the dish of brownies. There's already a huge platter of quartered sandwiches there, and a cooler full of soft drinks, and I wonder idly what else Aunt Linda could possibly provide.

I don't dwell on the question though, more interested in greeting Aunt Jenny and six month old Micaylah, and it's not until Aunt Linda arrives that anything really changes.

"Swanny," Ryan greets me carelessly, drops gracelessly onto the picnic blanket beside me, and tickles one of Micaylah's little feet with a fond grin. "How goes it?"

Ryan, at 15, is the cousin I'm closest to. He and I are in the same grade, and although we have other cousins in the same general age group as us, we hardly see them. They're spread out across the US, in Hawaii and Alaska and where the hell ever else, and it's no surprise that during family gatherings, he has always been my go-to playmate.

"It's going," I offer him a hug, and he returns it with a begrudging roll of his eyes, "How are you?"

Ryan shrugs. "Same old, same old."

I hum my acknowledgement as Aunt Linda sets up her collapsable chair beside Aunt Jenny's. Simon, Terence, and Collin jet off to join Isaiah, Aaron, and a small horde of other children in the water, determined to soak up the last dregs of summer before the chill of autumn - and the ensuing winter - truly sets in.

Between being quizzed about my and my parents' wellbeing, and contributing to the conversation between the adults in our group, Ryan and I chat idly about the new school year, how I've settled into Forks High, what I think about my classmates and what have you. I tease him about his girlfriend, he accepts it with long-suffering grace - no doubt, I'm the most recent in a long line of people to do so - and the time passes. We're joined sporadically by the boys, Simon and Terrence, Collin, Isaiah, and Aaron, loud, rambunctious, and energetic, and someway, somehow, Ryan and I are drawn, good-humoured and resigned, into their horseplay.

In nothing but my bathing suit, the water's freezing, unsurprisingly, but the company is enough to fend off the chill, and I guess I can't complain. I laugh instead, joyous in the presence of my people, far from the fear I'm plagued by in Forks, and I don't know how it can get better than this.

I learn quickly, though.

 **Author's Note:** Unless the muse demands otherwise, next chapter will be the one you've all been waiting for.

Apologies for the wait. The muse took me away from the Twilight fandom again, but as I've said previously, I'm not quite done with Bella and Paul and the gang. That said, catch you in the new year. -t.


	10. Chapter 10

**North Star**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Twilight. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Ten:**

 _Paul_

Saturday turns out to be a bright, sunny day, and it takes only one glance at Naomi's wide, guileless eyes for me to reluctantly concede to accompanying her and our grandparents to First Beach. It's already crowded, with multiple generations of families, with the Tribal Council, with a small army of (certified) volunteers tasked with keeping everything in order. In particular, supervising the children in the water, the sojourns to the tide pools, and the occasional attempt to sneak into the woods by my restless classmates.

"I wanna go swimming!" Naomi declares.

"Sure, Nay-Nay," I acknowledge, "Let me just help Grams and Grandpa get set up, okay? Then I'll go swimming with you."

Naomi huffs impatiently, and flops gracelessly onto the sand to wait. She doesn't protest though, and instead busies herself with building a sand castle while I spread out a picnic blanket, set up Grams' and Grandpa's fold-out chairs, and haul the cooler and platters of food from the car.

"Okay, that's everything," I declare when I'm done.

"I wish you'd let us help, Pauly," Grams says, "You look tired. Do you want a drink?"

"I'm okay, Grams," I assure her, "Thanks, though."

I've set them up where all of the other elders of the tribe seem to have set up shop, and Grandpa's already in conversation with one of his friends. They chat in animated Quileute, and both of my grandparents wear smiles.

They're happy to be hear, to be among their friends, and family, and tribe, and I can't remember the last time I've seen them like this.

Before the accident, I'm sure.

"Pauly, can we go now?" Naomi entreats.

"all right, Nay-Nay," I acquiesce, and by the time I've tugged off my shirt and sunglasses, she's already discarded her dress and sandals to reveal her favourite green bathing suit, "Let's go."

Naomi runs ahead, between the picnic blankets and milling tribespeople, and hits the water with a shriek of mingled delight and surprise.

"It's cold!" She flops down in the shallows, curls her toes and fingers in the sand, and offers me a bright, unfettered grin. "You gonna sit with me, Pauly?"

"You don't want to go deeper?" I ask her, "Play in the waves?"

Naomi considers it for a moment, but ultimately declines with a shake of her head. Her hair whips around her face, but she's entirely unbothered by it. "Not yet."

"Okay," I acknowledge, settle myself beside her, and amuse us both by flicking water at her. Naomi loves it, reciprocating in kind, and despite myself, I laugh.

With the sun against my skin, with the waves lapping around my legs, with Naomi's laughter in my ears, I smile, and for the moment, I am content.

I pray it lasts.

 _Jared_

"Where is he?" Sam asks. He's not much for idle conversation, and I sigh, resigned, and point out Paul among the mass of tribe members already gathered.

It's not difficult. Paul isn't yet a wolf, but he's 6'3" anyway, with broad shoulders, and an air about him that somehow _demands_ attention. It's oddly incongruous, because my friend is far from the extroverted type, but he has a confidence about him, a surety in himself and his future that is so unlike the rest of our peers. He's been struggling, of course - it's no wonder, given everything - and thing's aren't going to get any easier when he fazes, but through it all, he's maintained that same strength of character I've come to expect from him.

I can only hope his strength holds out against the trials yet to come.

"That's him, with the little girl in green. That's his sister, Naomi."

Sam studies Paul, his expression blank, and then determines, "He's not close to fazing yet."

"I guess it makes sense," I acknowledge, "He only moved to La Push over the summer. We've been around since the leeches got here. He's had less exposure."

Paul's lived in Tacoma forever. He was born on the Reservation - he and Naomi both - but his parents had wanted their children to have access to more opportunities than what La Push could offer them. Moreover, Uncle John and Aunt Lani had been very frank about their opinions regarding Indigenous Americans, the cycle of poverty, and their determination that neither Paul or Naomi would fall into the same trap as so many others before them.

After the accident though, and once Paul and Naomi had seen out the end of the school year in Tacoma, Grams and Grandpa Lahote had helped pack up Paul's childhood home, had helped settle Uncle John and Aunt Lani's affairs, and had relocated Paul and Naomi to their home in La Push.

With the change in scenery, Naomi had adapted better, had more or less grown accustomed to life in the care of her grandparents, but the same can't be said regarding Paul. He's grieving, in a pit of depression I'm not sure how to help him out of, and I'm worried. Not just because of the wolf shit hurdling Paul's way, but also because of everything else he has to deal with, too.

Sam grunts his agreement, and his gaze flickers towards the tree-line. "We'll keep an eye on him over the next few weeks, but no need to worry yet. There's some middle school fuckers trying to get into the woods again. Watch the water."

Sam stalks off to place the fear of God into the wannabe rebels, and I continue on my path in the shallows with another sigh. Because I'm one of the few volunteers CPR and Lifesaving certified, I've been appointed the responsibility of ensuring no one drowns today, but there's about a dozen other places I'd rather be, and those places are all far from First Beach, and also far, far away from Kimberly Carter.

The girl in question laughs, a loud, unapologetic belly laugh that's somewhat deceiving, given her small stature, and I glance towards her in the water, not really intending to do so. She's frolicking with her boyfriend, and they're both smiling, laughing, happy as clams, and I grimace, and continue on my way. In the back of my mind, the wolf growls possessively, but Kimberly Carter doesn't 'need' anything from me, and thus he remains muzzled.

Admittedly, I still haven't done anything about her, still haven't talked to her, told her anything, and I have no interest in doing so, either. The imprint pull is like a vice around my chest, and I've done far more detours in my patrol to run by her house than I care to admit, but I'd rather not take away anyone else's choices.

Hell, I don't even want to take away my own.

Sam, whom I'd misjudged early on, is humouring me, at least. He knows about the imprint - it's kind of hard to hide, given the shared mind - but he hasn't told the Tribal Council, and neither does he intend to. Not until I ask him to, anyway.

Quite frankly, I'd rather not deal with them ever, but if wishes were dollars, and all that.

 _Bella_

As evening falls, Uncle Thomas and Aunt Linda take off with their respective families. Ryan stays, content to cuddle with his girlfriend as the bonfires are lit. As they do, I make myself scarce, unwilling to be a third wheel, and find myself in the company of the Clearwaters. Harry is seated with the other Council members (Billy in a special, beach-designed wheelchair), but Seth and Leah are both seated on a blanket with Sue, though honestly, Sue looks like the only one happy to be there.

I'm herded onto the blanket, offered a plate full of food, and lightly interrogated about how I'm going, how Charlie's going, how school is going, so on and so on. Seth plays his Gameboy, Leah blasts deafeningly loud punk music into her ears, and I'm distracted as a guy around my age - tall, leanly muscled, and accompanied by a little girl - spreads out a blanket in the empty space beside us. They take off again, returning with an older couple, and all of the assorted bits and pieces that speaks of a day on the beach.

"That's Paul Lahote," Sue informs me, following my gaze. She wears a knowing smile on her face, and I blush despite myself, "He and his little sister just moved from Tacoma over the summer. They live with their grandparents now."

Although I'm curious, I don't ask about their parents. There's a grief in the older couple, anyway, one that is reflected in Paul Lahote, and I don't think I want to know. Not yet.

"He works at the diner, right?" I ask instead, "I think I saw him there once."

"He does," Sue confirms, "He's a good boy."

I glance at him again, only to find him looking right back at me. His features are shadowed in the dying sunlight, but he's no less striking for the sharp angles and poor lighting.

I blush again, reach up and tug nervously at the roots of my hair, bite my bottom lip, and then I smile, tentative, and watches as he smiles back. It's small, a barely there upwards tilt at the corners of his mouth, but it's definitely a smile, and it carries me right through to the end of the night.

 **Author's Note:** Is there anybody out there?

Practically a year later… I'm sorry for the wait. The muse took me elsewhere, and this chapter just really didn't want to be written. I'm not happy with the short POV's here - I'm hoping they'll be longer in the chapters to come - but we'll see. I'm planning to write a series of sub-plots involving the different characters - it's why I'm bothering with POV shifts at all - but we'll see how I go, I guess.

Thanks for reading, for sticking around if you have. Leave a review? What do you think about my plan for the story? Otherwise, until next time (hopefully). -t.


	11. Chapter 11

**North Star**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Twilight. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Eleven:**

 _Bella_

The Quileute Tribe is small, the population of La Push even smaller. It's one of those places wherein everyone knows everyone else, if not personally, then by name, face, or word of mouth.

I am not surprised, therefore, when Sue strikes up a conversation with the couple introduced as Adam and Kala Lahote. She includes Paul and I, too, and drifts between English and Quileute as she quizzes us and talks about our thoughts of the day, of the bonfire and story night yet to come, and about how Paul and I have been settling into La Push and Forks, respectively.

Eventually, though, Sue and the elder Lahotes drift into conversation regarding current intra and inter tribal politics, and I turn to Paul, feeling a little awkward. Leah's still got her headphones in, blasting death metal for all it's worth, and she is not remotely interested in making conversation. Meanwhile, Seth's wandered off to hang out with his friends, and little Naomi has dozed off in her grandfather's arms. It leaves Paul and I, and although I have no idea what to say to him, I'd feel weird if I didn't say anything at all.

It helps - or perhaps it doesn't, depending on how you look at it - that Paul's rather good looking, with high cheekbones, a patrician nose, and a jaw that can probably cut glass. He's got a nice smile, too, rare as it seems to be, and a lean, toned physique beneath a tight-fitting T-shirt and a pair of swim trunks. By rights, he should be lanky, gangly in awkward in that way of teenaged boys who've grown a lot in a relatively short amount of time, but he's not, and I'm intrigued. I'm drawn in by the patience he'd shown his sister, by the care with which he'd treated his grandparents, by the subtle confidence that seems to radiate off him with every move he makes.

"You're a junior, right?" I ask, for lack of anything else to say. School's a fairly uninteresting topic, all things considered, but it's safe, unlikely to incite any emotional triggers, and it's better than nothing.

"Yeah, I am, technically," Paul confirms.

"Technically?"

"I'm on track to graduate in June," he explains, "I was in a fast track program in Tacoma. It carried over."

Paul says it without any airs, as though his accomplishment isn't something to be proud of, as though it's not at all noteworthy, and I have to consciously force myself not to gape like an idiot.

"That's pretty awesome," I acknowledge instead, for lack of anything else to say, "Do you know what you want to do when you graduate? You probably get asked that a lot, I guess…"

"Pretty often," he confirms, a small, humoured smile on his face, and then he shrugs, "The plan is to study Architecture at the University of Washington, but I think I'll take a year off, first."

Paul glances at his sister, then, conked out even as conversation picks up around them, and I don't need to ask him why. It's abundantly obvious he's very close to her, and I can't imagine it would be easy to separate from her after losing their parents so recently.

"What about you?" Paul queries, "Have you thought about what you want to do after high school?"

"Not really," I admit, "I guess I need to, though."

"You've got some time."

Behind Paul, the sun disappears beyond the horizon. The last dregs of daylight linger, and the gathered council members disperse from where they've huddled around Billy Black.

Jacob, next to his father, his long hair bound in a tail at the nape of his neck, has a wide-belly drum perched between his knees. He drums it now, a low, rolling sound that carries across the beach, over the water, and through the trees, and the gathered tribe members fall expectantly silent.

Next to me, Sue impatiently swats Leah's side until, irritably, Leah tugs off her headphones, shuts off her mp3 player, and casts a disinterested gaze towards Billy, and to the stories he's about to tell. No doubt, she's heard them all before - like me, Leah could probably recite them in her sleep - but in this instance, it'd be rude not to listen.

I'm not sure why Leah wouldn't want to, though. Life may be shit for her at present, but Billy Black comes alive at these bonfires, and as he tells our tribe's stories, he has a way about him that demands attention.

It helps, of course, that he's a stupendous story teller, and like every other time before today, he does not disappoint.

Long ago, when Spirit Protectors walked these lands…"

When the stories come to an end, I help the stragglers clear up. Paul, Seth, Leah, and Jacob do too, and before long, the bonfire has been put out, Billy is secure in Jake's car, chatting with Sue and Harry through the window, and I linger near my truck, accompanied by Jacob and Seth. Paul's already gone, disappeared into the night with his family, and I idly wonder about when I'll next get the chance to see him.

"Thanks for helping out, Bells," Jake says. He sounds tired, and I assume (correctly) that he's been helping Billy all afternoon. Such is his obligation - or duty, perhaps - as Billy's primary caretaker.

It's more than that, though. Jake's going to be Chief of the Tribe one day, with all of the rights and responsibilities therein, and Billy's health isn't what it used to be. As a result, he's been teaching Jake all he needs to know - the legends, the customs, the tribal politics, and then some - earlier than anyone would like.

Unsurprisingly, the responsibility - and reality - takes it's toll.

Not for the first time, I think of Rachel and Rebecca, and resentment festers in my heart.

"It's fine, Jake," I assure him, "I'm not in any rush."

Jacob smiles wanly, accepts the sideways hug I offer him, and then wordlessly opens the cab door to my truck. I haul myself in without prompting, crank down my window, and lean on the frame to address Jacob and Seth both.

"Will I be seeing you guys tomorrow morning?"

"Bright and early," Seth confirms.

"Wouldn't miss it," Jake concurs. He tugs lightly at a curl of my hair, "Get outta here, Bells."

"Drive safe," Seth adds.

I salute my acknowledgement, ignite the engine, and make my way home with a tired sigh. It's been a long day, and despite how much I've enjoyed myself, I'm glad it's over.

Presumably, Charlie, dozing in front of the TV, the volume turned down low, agrees with me.

 **Author's Note:** There's supposed to be another POV in this chapter, but Jacob, Jared, and Paul didn't work for plot reasons, and I find I'm honestly nervous to delve into the Leah/Sam/Emily mess. It's a quagmire of emotional damage/baggage, and I'm not even sure where to start with it. I'll get there though. Eventually.

Until then, you can (hopefully) look forward to an extra long Chapter 12 to make up for it. Maybe. If it works out, anyway.

Otherwise, thanks a bunch for all your support, guys and gals. Until next time, -t.


	12. Chapter 12

**North Star**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Twilight. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Twelve:**

 _Bella_

I wake, after a night of restless sleep and restless dreams, to the shrill screech of my alarm clock, to the grey light of dawn, and to an unshakeable, unquestionable sense of dread. I don't remember what I'd dreamt - just the sensation of running, being hunted - and it's carried over to my waking world. My heart is racing, my hands are trembling, and I feel like a child again, afraid of the monsters underneath my bed.

It's inexplicable, really, but no one ever said fear was always logical. Nevertheless, I chalk it up to the product of a particularly vivid dream, comb my hair out of my face, and try hard to get a grip.

I'm only moderately successful.

"Are you all right there, Bells?" Charlie asks me, perceptive as he always is.

"Bad dreams," I shrug, cast a glance towards the forest beyond the kitchen windows, and shutter. It's odd - I've always felt safe, welcome - wandering the forests surrounding Forks and La Push - but suddenly, they seem dangerous, menacing, threatening in a way I can't place for the life of me.

I tell myself it's just the remnants of my dreams playing tricks on my mind, and then, as I let my chai tea steep, I rationalise that it can't be anything else, really. The Olympic Rainforest is as it has always been, as it always will be, and this thought comforts me.

"Are you still feeling up to fishing?" Charlie asks.

I roll my eyes. "Bad dreams are hardly debilitating, Dad. I'm fine."

He studies me, I let him, and he eventually concedes with a nod. "If you say so, Bells."

"I do say so, Chief," I answer, and help myself to the pot of oatmeal on the stove. I add brown sugar and cinnamon, and slices of banana as well, and join him at the kitchen table to eat my breakfast. As I do so, he quizzes me about the day before, I return the favour, and before long, my bowl is empty, his is too, and we have few reasons to linger. I pack away the leftover oatmeal - it'll keep in the freezer for a while - gather up everything I'll need for the morning - including the muffins I'd baked the night before - and follow my father out to his (personal) car. It's a truck, one of those ones with a back seat, and enough room in the tray for his fishing, or hunting, or whatever equipment, and he's already stored all our gear in the tray in question. There's a cooler, too - full of soft drinks, water, and beer, no doubt - and I idly wonder about what time he'd gotten up that morning.

"Can I drive?" I ask. As I do, I look towards the tree line, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling.

"Not a chance in hell, Bells."

I roll my eyes. With how attached to his car he is, I'd not expected any other answer, but it's still a little exasperating to have my expectations confirmed. It's not the hill I want to die on, though, so I clamber into the passenger seat with my basket of muffins, glance once more towards the tree line, and then look away with a shake of my head and a self-deprecating little laugh. There's nothing there.

And yet, even as I tell myself this, the hairs on the back of my neck still stand on end, and I wonder if I'm kidding myself.

I pray that I'm not.

-!- -#-

 _Jacob_

Dad has a pill container that's split into seven cartridges - one for each day - and it makes keeping track of his meds just a little bit easier. He sorts and refills them each Sunday, I double check them when he's preoccupied, and every morning, when Dad's in the bathroom, I check the container to make sure he's actually taken his medication.

Things are made complicated by the fact that dad has no interest in sharing what his blood pressure or blood sugar levels are, but in that regard, I've learned where the old man hides his medical journal. It's where he keeps a record of his blood pressure and blood sugar levels on a day by day basis, his cholesterol levels per quarterly blood test, and everything else, too. I also make an effort to keep track of his food intake and stress levels, try to keep the junk food in the house to a minimum, ensure he's drinking a lot of water between his obligatory cans of beer.

As for the rest of it? I do what I can, and I take it all one step at a time. I don't think about the future, I don't think about the past. I try hard just to focus on the here and now, on each issue as they arise, and mostly, I manage. Some days are better than others, some days are worse, but in general, that's life, and I get by. I guess it's all I can ask for.

"Did you get home okay?" I ask Bella. She's seated beside me on the jetty, absently making her way through one of her breakfast muffins. They're delicious, as always - I've already eaten two - and I'm halfway tempted to go for another. I don't even have to feel bad about it, because as she always does, Bella's prepared a special batch of diabetic-friendly muffins just for dad, and after mowing his way through the first, he's hoarding the rest of them like a dragon.

"Yeah," she confirms. She casts her gaze towards our fathers and Harry, situated further down the jetty, and then looks back at me with a shrug, "It was uneventful. Did you?"

I nod. "We got home and crashed. It was a long day."

"Good, though," Seth opines, "Except Leah was being such a bitch. Again. She acts like her break up is the end of the freaking world or something."

"Maybe it was, to her," Bella muses, "She was pretty rapt up in him, wasn't she? I mean, thinking about it now…"

I shrug, clueless. I'd never paid too much attention to Leah, or to her relationship with Sam. She'd always tailed after Rachel and Rebecca as a kid, and by the time she'd grown out of that, I'd had no time for girls, bar one. Namely, Bella, who'd had as much fun building mud pies as she had playing with her dolls. "I guess so."

Seth shrugs. He couldn't care less about the circumstances surrounding Leah's and Sam's relationship. "I wish she'd get over it. It's been ages."

"She will in her own time," Bella advises him, and stares mindlessly over the water, "You just need to be patient."

Seth pulls a face. He doesn't like that advice, though I don't blame him. Leah's been rather nasty, of late, to anyone and everyone. Seth, as her younger brother, has probably copped it the worst.

Nevertheless, he doesn't argue with Bella. He eats another muffin instead, drains the last of the bottled iced coffee he'd bought from the gas station on the way here, and sits back to daydream in his fold-out chair.

"What about you, Bells?" I ask, to try lighten the mood, "Any guys you have to get over… Or under?"

Bella arches an eyebrow, pulls a face, and then glances at Seth, who looks simultaneously entertained and scandalised. "No. There's no one."

As she says it, though, she blushes, and I'm a hundred per cent sure she's lying. I don't ask though, and neither do I tease her about it - not with Seth around - but I promise myself I will. Later.

"What about you, Jake?" She turns the tables on me. I was more or less expecting it, though, and I'm already laughing when she asks, "Is there anyone who's caught your eye?"

"No," I deny, and I try to suppress the bitterness. I don't think I'm particularly successful, but Bella doesn't prod. I'm grateful. "I'm too busy, and QUil gives us all a bad reputation, anyway."

Aside from school, and taking care of dad, and taking care of the house, and learning all of the tribal shit I need to know and do as Chief Black's only son, I also do under-the-table car repairs to make some cash. It's not a lot, and it's definitely not legal, but between it and Dad's SSI cheque, it pays the bills. I usually have a bit leftover at the end of each month, but it all goes into a savings account I keep for emergencies, for unforeseen expenses and such, and certainly not to pay for dinner dates and whatever else.

"Trust Quil," Bella laughs. She reaches over and squeezes my hand though, and I know without asking that she and I will be talking later, alone, about the other thing I'd mentioned. Or not mentioned, as the case may be.

And strangely, I'm not remotely bothered by the prospect.

-!- -#-

 _Paul_

Emma's son is sick, and there isn't anyone available to look after him. As such, she's called in sick herself, Leah's covering her shift, and it's perhaps the worst way to start my Sunday. She's toxic, in a way - her attitude is, at least - and her irritation spills over onto everyone else.

I hate working with her. I understand poor moods - spirits know, I could probably write a dissertation about longterm anger, or sadness, or what the fuck ever else - but Leah doesn't have the courtesy of keeping it to herself. No, she's miserable, and she wants everyone else not only to know it, but to be just as miserable, too.

It's such that being polite, and friendly, and good-humoured with the customers becomes a strain by an hour into my shift, and I've taken to doing everything possible to avoid my unpleasant coworker.

One such opportunity arises when Chief Swan and his daughter, Bella, the girl I'd met the day before,arrives just as the lunch rush begins to die down. They're in my area, seated in a booth by the windows, so I approach them with a pen and notepad in hand, prepared to take their orders.

"Hi, Paul," Bella greets me. She wears a smile, and in the scattered sunlight through the diner's front window, her dark hair is highlighted with gold.

I don't ask if I can paint her, with all of the colours in her hair, with the faintest of freckles on her nose, with the smile behind her eyes, but again, I want to - paint her, that is - and I hope it doesn't show.

"Hey, Bella," I acknowledge her, "And you must be Chief Swan. I'm Paul Lahote. It's nice to meet you."

Chief Swan and I shake hands, and it's a little awkward. Bella seems amused, Chief Swan is unruffled, and I wonder if it's just me.

"Can I get you drinks to start off with?"

I take their orders, drinks and food both, and wander off to get the orders in question to the cook. I get them their drinks, and as I serve them, I make small talk with both of the Swans. Mostly about their fishing trip out by Lake Pleasant - Gramps has been trying to get me to go with him for months - and it's not terrible. A little awkward, maybe, with Chief Swan eyeballing me like I was one of his criminals - but pleasant, overall. Bella's nice - sweet, really - with interesting things to say, without any of the pity I've grown so accustomed to seeing, and it's refreshing. She's pretty, too - attractive in her way - but at the end of the day, I'm only their waiter, and I wander off to check on my other tables once both of them have their drinks, a complimentary jug of water, and their cutlery, as well.

"Are you hot for Isabella Swan?" Leah asks me, back at the counter.

"Hardly," I roll my eyes, drop my notepad and pen on the counter, and cast a gaze over my tables, "I barely know her. If I was though, what business is it of yours?"

"Nothing," Leah shakes her head, and walks away, and I get nothing else from her. Admittedly, I don't try, but as my shift progresses, as I chit chat with the patrons in my area, I wonder about Leah Clearwater, about her interest in my interactions with Bella Swan, about the brief glimpse of vulnerability I'd received before she'd shut me out again.

I wonder, but I don't ask. Likely, I never will.

 **Author's Note:** Hey guys. This is a long shot, but do any of you know of a Bella/Edward Zombie Apocalypse AU in which Bella and Alice are sisters who meet Edward and Jasper on the road home to Washington from, like, Florida or something? I think Emmett is the girls' cousin/adopted brother, but I can't recall… If you know the story, that'd be awesome. I can't remember what it's called, but I never finished it and I'd like to.

Otherwise, are there any Australians here? I just finished reading the Tomorrow Series and the Ellie Chronicles, and I'm wondering why it's taken me so long to get around to it. I read them all in four days, and if you haven't read them - Australian or not - I'd definitely recommend them.

Anyway, thanks for reading. I probably won't update again until after Christmas/New Year's, so happy holidays! Until next time, -t.

ps. Where the hell did 2018 go?


	13. Chapter 13

**North Star**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Twilight. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Thirteen:**

 _ **Bella**_

Lauren and Riley are official, though they're not particularly blatant about it. He drives her to school, but he sits with his own friends at lunch, and Lauren doesn't particularly angst about the fact. In her own words, she has no desire to become one of those co-dependent couples, has no interest in being defined by her relationship, and I can appreciate an opinion like that. I can only hope that, when the time comes, I'm of the same mindset.

"How was your weekend?" Jessica asks. Her period had kept her home, apparently - a bad case of leak anxiety, though I'm not particularly invested in the details - and she's not thrilled about acquiring all of the gossip after the fact, "Did you do anything interesting?"

"I went down to La Push on Saturday," I reply, "There was a tribal thing, which was good. I got some swimming in; probably the last of the warm weather. Other than that, I didn't get up to much. Fishing on Sunday, homework, the usual…"

"Anyone catch your eye?" Jessica pries. Predictably, I blush, and my friend's face lights up, "That blush says 'yes!' Who? Details, please?"

"It's nothing like that, really," I insist, "I mean, yeah, he was stupidly attractive, but we just made small talk, you know?"

"So? Tell me, anyway. I need to live vicariously through you guys. Not like there's anyone on the horizon for me."

Angela, Lauren, and I share deadpan glances. The unresolved sexual tension rolling off she and Mike could probably be harnessed as a weapon of mass destruction, but Jessica's convinced Mike hasn't noticed she's female, never mind interested in him, and getting her to change her mind has proven difficult.

"Maybe later," I reply. While their older siblings are involved in a serious looking conversation between themselves,Edward and Alice Cullen are both watching our table, and their scrutiny makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I'm not comfortable under their attention, certainly not interested in divulging the details of my encounter with Paul Lahote, and maybe that's irrational of me, but I go with my gut instinct, anyway. "Rest assured, though, there was no romance, no sparks, or anything. Just, you know, good conversation."

"Maybe it's good to be friends first, anyway," Angela quietly opines. She tears at the crust of her neglected sandwich, "Not that I'd know firsthand, of course, but, I don't know, it just seems practical, you know?"

"Preach, sister," Lauren contributes. She offers Angela a playful wink, and Angela rolls her eyes, an indulgent smile on her face.

I don't think I'd want to date strangers," I admit, "Dad's hammered the whole 'stranger danger' thing into my skull so often, I feel like I'd be on edge the whole time. Until I get to know them well enough, I mean."

Jessica nods thoughtfully. Angela and Lauren do the same. "That makes sense. I guess that means you'll just have to run into that guy more often."

"Won't be too hard," I concede. At their quizzical expressions, I shrug, and hedge, "La Push is a small place."

"True," Jessica agrees.

"Convenient," Lauren opines. There's a smirk on her face, "I'm going to have to insist we spend Saturday in La Push. If that's okay, Bella?"

I shrug. "I don't see why not. Beach will be cold, though."

"We can go hiking," Angela suggests.

Jessica pulls a face. "I don't know, isn't it like, you've seen one part of the Olympic National Park, you've seen it all?"

Jessica's not a fan of hiking. She's familiar with it, because it's Forks and hiking is practically a pre-requisite to coming of age or whatever, but she doesn't live and breathe it like some others I've met.

"I mean, I'm always surprised by something new," I opine.

"Same," Lauren agrees, "But if not that, there's always rock climbing or, I don't know…"

"Besides," I add pompously, "It's not about the destination, it's the journey that matters."

As Emmett Cullen bursts into unexpected, uproarious laughter on the other side of the cafeteria, there's a round of rolled eyes, scoffs, incredulous, mocking jeers from my friends. Lauren throws her straw at me, and I can't suppress my humour if I tried.

"I can't believe you just said that," Lauren grouses, "You're a goddamn travesty, Swan."

"I'm amazing," I counter, chortling.

"You're certainly something," Jessica replies, rolling her eyes. She's smiling though, and I consider it a win.

"We can hang out with my cousin, I suppose," I concede once my mirth settles, "Assuming he wants to, that is. He's pretty rapt up in his new girlfriend though, so maybe he won't…"

"What else is there to do?" Angela wonders.

"The diner," I shrug. I can't shake the feeling I'm not remotely subtle, and I resign myself to my fate, "That's where he works."

Jessica throws her arms up, exasperated. "Well why didn't you just say so? I'd go for a milkshake over rock climbing any day."

"Ditto," Angela opines.

"Lauren?" I query.

Lauren shrugs, indifferent. "Sounds good to me."

Plans made, our conversation drifts. Jessica advises me not to get my hopes up regarding my new dance classes, and Angela babbles about her - apparently very attractive - youth group leader. Lauren grumbles about the debating team - evidently, she doesn't care for the topics we can expect to address during the competition season - and it's pleasant. The guys are off at another table, talking sports and girls and whatever else it is guys talk about when we're not around, and before I know it, the lunch hour is over, and World History calls my name.

"Are you ready for a riveting lesson on the French Revolution?" Lauren asks, mock-enthusiastic.

"Oh, yes, it's going to be the highlight of my day," I reply facetiously. She and I link arms, bid farewell to Angela and Jessica, and go on our way. And all the while, Edward and Alice Cullen linger, and watch, and I eagerly anticipate the end of school.

It can't arrive soon enough.

-!- -#-

 _ **Jacob**_

Quil's chatting up Loraine Walker, and Embry's a quiet, moping figure beside me. He's been sullen all day - arguing with his mom again, presumably - but he's not up to talking about it, and I know better than to push. If pressed, he's liable to shut up like a clam, so instead, I invite him over after school, and wait him out. Embry will talk in his own time, and until then, there is food to be eaten, classes to be attended, Quil to be contained.

"Quil, move your ass," I jostle him impatiently, "Some of us would like to eat today."

Quil rolls his eyes, but he shuffles forward in the cafeteria queue, and Loraine mechanically pays for her food. She lingers briefly, but Quil's attention has been diverted to his lunch tray, and she leaves, disappointed.

"Thanks, douche," Quil grumbles. He pays for his own food, and waits for EMbry and I to do the same. We do so using food stamps, of course, but no one bats an eye about it - in La Push, it's not much of a surprise - and he continues complaining all the way to our usual table, "What crawled up your ass, anyway?"

"Nothing," I answer. Actually, I'm in a pretty good mood, all things considered. Dad's been fairly cooperative, of late, all of our bills for the month have been paid, and there's even enough money to splurge a little on better groceries than usual. It's a good day. "But Kathleen was watching."

Quil had accompanied Kathleen to the bonfire on Saturday, and apparently a lot more had gone on than listening to tribal legends. I hadn't noticed them sneak off - too busy with my own shit - but apparently, there 'fun' had involved a lot less clothes than Quil had really expected or planned for.

"Yikes," Quil winces.

"Brought it upon yourself, dude," Embry opines, "It's no wonder everyone thinks were all pricks; it's because you actually are."

"Dude, uncalled for," Quil frowns.

"I think it is," Embry counters, "What are you doing, man? Are you trying to sleep your way through the Reservation school, or something?"

"What business is it of yours?"

Embry exhales, and the fight leaves him as quickly as it had come, "It's not, really. You should probably be more careful, though. You don't want a kid, do you? What about STD's?"

As Quil blanches, there's a long, painful silence. It's awkward, it's uncomfortable, it seems to last forever, and I avoid eye contact with the both of them like a champ. None of us are experts on sexual health - the La Push Reservation School's health education curriculum only goes so far - but we know the basics, know enough to wear a condom for any hypothetical sexual hijinks we might want to participate in, and for now, it's enough.

At least, I thought it was.

"You _have_ been careful, right?" I look at Quil. He looks like he's about to pass out. There's a long, expectant silence. "Quil?"

"Yeah," he chokes out. "I've been careful."

Embry and I don't look at each other, but I'm fairly certain we both know he's lying. We nod, though, because Quil looks like he's genuinely going to be sick, and I don't think he's up to continuing _that_ conversation.

Quite frankly, I don't think I am, either.

"Any more letters from your sister?" Embry changes the subject. Quil looks relieved as he does so, but Embry and I pretend not to notice.

"No," I answer, "Not yet. I don't know why she bothers, though."

"Probably feels guilty," Embry replies with a shrug. It's not the first time he's said as much - we've gone over this topic over, and over, and over again, ad nauseam - and I grunt my disinterested acknowledgement. I have no desire to dwell on Rachel and Rebecca - I do that too much, already - but none of us are in the mood to talk shit about sports, or movies, or anything, really. Quil's too busy freaking out about whether or not his sexcapades are going to come back to haunt him, Embry's returned to his brooding, and the mention of my far away sister has left that familiar, festering feeling of resentment bubbling away in the pit of my stomach.

A good day, indeed..

-!- -#-

 _ **Sam**_

Emily is crying again. She's quiet, her sobs stifled behind pursed lips and a closed door, but the scent of salt on the air is unmistakeable, and the sound of her hitched breaths, her sniffling, her rapid heartbeat is deafening in my ears.

I linger at the mouth of the hallway where it meets the kitchen, gaze at the closed bedroom door, and wonder - helplessly - what to do. The wolf stirs restlessly at the back of my mind, but he's no use in this situation, and even if he was, I wouldn't let him help, anyway.

The wolf has already done enough.

"Is she okay?" Jared asks, his voice hushed. He hovers awkwardly at the back door, unsure if he should enter, and I glance at him, rueful and unspeakably, unfathomably tired.

God, Spirits, Taha Aki himself, "I wish I fucking knew."

Jared shifts on his feet. He glances behind him, towards the tree-line, and he looks like he's contemplating an escape.

I don't blame him, though.

Sometimes, I want to run, too; to just escape La Push, start a new life far away from Washington, from Emily Young and Leah Clearwater and any reminders of werewolves and vampires and everything else that I have to regret here; to get as far as humanly possible and never look back.

I don't, though.

I'm not Joshua Uley, and I don't ever want to be.

"Should I go?"

I glance towards the bedroom door again, and sigh. "Yeah, probably. Do a round before you head home?"

Jared nods his acknowledgement. "Will do, man. Take care."

And then he's gone again, and it's me, and Emily, and a closed bedroom door between us that might as well be the Grand Canyon, as much as it divides us.

I sigh again, my shoulders slump, and I shuffle in to our shoebox-sized living room. I flick on the TV, put on a game of football and try to drown out my imprint's misery, and I hate myself for dragging her into this life, for the scars, for the breakdown of her - and my own - relationship with Leah. Mostly, though, I hate myself for hating her, too.

I think I always will.

-!- -#-


	14. Chapter 14

**North Star**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Twilight. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Fourteen:**

 _Paul_

It's an uneventful week of school, work, and babysitting. Naomi and I attend another appointment with our psychologist, and I'm asked to tutor a few struggling underclassmen. That doesn't start for another week though, so it's business as usual until then, and I try not to let the tedium bother me. It's weird, because most of the time I appreciate the constancy, but I'm oddly restless all week, and I can't shake it for the life of me.

Morning runs along the beach don't help, and neither does painting the spectacular sunrise I capture on camera during one such occasion. It doesn't help that Jared eyes me like I'm some sort of pod-person, but as far as he's concerned, I might as well be. It's unlike me to be so on-edge, to remain thus for days on end, and perhaps he's justified in his caution. I'm not worried, though. I haven't consumed anything illicit - I've even cut down on the coffee, God help me - and as such, whatever's going on, it's entirely organic.

I proceed through my Saturday shift with the same restless, itch beneath my skin kind of feeling I've put up with all week. Emma jokes I've got ants in my pants. Mr Clearwater's gaze is a lot more scrutinising, and I wonder if he thinks I've taken something.

"I think I just need a change of scenery," I tell Emma during a lull in our work, "I think I'm going a bit stir-crazy here."

"No wonder," Emma replies ruefully, "This place is a shithole."

I huff a mirthless laugh. "I hear you."

Perhaps we should appreciate La Push more than we do, but it's hard to do so. Beyond the outdoor recreational opportunities, there isn't much else the Reservation offers by way of entertainment, or career diversity, or anything else, really. Most of the Quileute Tribe's restless youth spend their lives counting down the days before they can leave, and those who don't wind up doing so spend the rest of their lives bitterly regretting it, reliving their glory days, or both. It usually results in a vicious cycle of poverty, of assorted substance abuses, criminal records and the like, and it's hard to imagine the status quo will ever change. The reservation is too isolated, the people too downtrodden, and honestly, where would they - or we, rather - even start?

It's a rather defeatist attitude, admittedly, but courtesy of my mother, it's an issue I've been aware of for a long time, and one I still haven't yet realised a solution for. On that note, though, I'm only 16 - 17 in January - and I wonder if it's even my place to worry about such things. Surely, it's the jurisdiction of the Tribal Council?

In any case, my shift at Sue's isn't the place to consider the matter, and so I distract myself with the customers, chatting idly about the weather, about fishing and hiking and the lunch special. Emma vents bitterly about her often-absent partner, we eavesdrop on Harry yelling at Leah over the phone in his office because, once more, she's asked me to cover her Sunday morning shift, and then we pretend we weren't when he shuffles outside in pursuit of alcohol we don't actually stock.

I'm diverted by the arrival of three 'pale faces' in the diner. They're accompanied by Bella Swan, chatting between themselves while they settle in an empty booth, and I'm nonplused. White people in the diner isn't necessarily an oddity - we get enough Forks residents passing through, or general North-Western tourists out for a good hike or whatever, or just the white significant others of La Push natives - that it's not a surprise to receive white patrons, but Sue's isn't exactly a thriving hotspot for youth in the area. Most take off to Port Angeles if they've access to wheels, or bum around the beaches, parks, and the houses available to them if they don't, so seeing a handful of teenaged girls seated in a booth in my area?

It's weird as hell.

Nevertheless, I gather a handful of menus and wander over to distribute them. Bella smiles at me in greeting, I return it, and she introduces me to her friends. It's awkward - these things usually are - but we chit-chat anyway, I take their orders, and provide them with an obligatory jug of water, the accompanying glasses, and the assurance that their orders will be ready soon.

When I return to the counter, it's to find Emma with a smirk on her face.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing," she answers, chuckling to herself. She wanders off to refill Old QUil Ateara's coffee, and I busy myself with preparing drinks for my newest table, completely nonplused by my coworker's behaviour.

-!- -#-

 **Bella**

"He's hot," Jessica says once she's certain Paul is out of hearing range, "You should totally go after him."

"I don't even know him," I counter. I'm flushed, and my blush can probably light up the night sky.

Lauren shrugs, nonchalant. "So get to know him."

"It's not that easy," I counter, "I mean, it's not like we have a lot of reasons to meet up. There won't be any more outings to First Beach until April, at least, and the only other times I've seen him is here."

"Thought about it a lot, have you?" Jessica quips.

"More than I care to admit," I concede.

"Maybe you should just give him your number," Angela suggests. It's an uncharacteristically forward recommendation from the taller girl, and the thought makes me cringe in preemptive mortification.

"I can't do that," I reply, "I'd die of shame."

Lauren rolls her eyes. "Hardly. Besides, what if he's interested? You could be passing up a perfectly good opportunity."

"He doesn't even know me," I shrug, "Why would he be?"

"Because your hot," Jessica replies, as though it should be obvious, "Why wouldn't he be?"

I flush, simultaneously pleased and embarrassed. I'd not been fishing for complements, but it's a nice thing to hear. Renee says I'm beautiful and pretty and all those things, and Charlie can be counted on for similar comments on rare occasions, but they're parents, and it's their job to boost my self-esteem. Hearing it from friends, though…

"Thanks," I smile at Jessica, offer her a playful wink, and add, "You're pretty fine yourself."

Jessica preens. "I do try."

"She's modest, too," Lauren quips. There's a soft, fond smile on her face, though, and Jessica shrugs, unabashed and unapologetic.

Paul returns in the ensuing lull in conversation. He serves us our beverages, and starts up a conversation with me about Sunday, about whether or not I'll be headed out to Lake Pleasant for another fishing trip. We banter briefly about visiting the diner twice in one weekend, but he wanders off to tend to his other tables, and I return my attention to my friends with my face, once more, burning.

"Maybe he'll turn up tomorrow," Jessica says optimistically.

I stir my straw around my milkshake, and shrug, unconvinced. "Maybe."

Angela nudges me lightly, and offers me an encouraging smile. "Fingers crossed."

"Fingers crossed," I echo softly. I don't want to get my hopes up.

Nonetheless, I hope, anyway.

 **AUthor's Note:** It's been a difficult semester, but I submitted my last assessment today, and I have at least six weeks before I have to go back. I hope to get a lot of writing in, but I make no promises for which stories I'll update, if any. Who knows? I might be struck by an incurable bout of writer's block that lasts months… Hope not, though… Anyway, thanks for reading. Hope you've enjoyed. Until next time, -t.


End file.
